Dear Classless Society.

I write to you from this moment of polyester, headphones, ballpoint pens, mascara, limousines, bubblegum, motorcycles, linoleum, tupperware, front lawns.

I write to suspend us together in the long stretch, the spiraling highway on-ramp of history. I hope this apostrophe welds the mechanical past | present | future to one another until the base of our machinery combusts and we can meet you, at last, with all our contradictions unfolding from our clauses. I hope to outline the foundation of the present political economy, to connect ice to the firing squad, to answer to your future history with my past cultural production.

How will you write about what is just as mundane to us as it is atrocious to you? What will you make of our literary infrastructure? How will you dissolve the bureaucracy of the sentence? Can I work for you as a writer and a newsboy? This is what I imagine people who distribute your magazines shout on street corners: "EXTRA! EXTRA! Take this object! Full of other smaller objects! That make sounds in your head when you look at them! Synthesize them with the ideas you get from your labor! Determine meaning within the framework of what Jameson calls "a single great collective story!" I sure love having dependable housing!"

With love,