Sirs Our company has been in discussions with your company for a number of months.

We need not quibble over this number. It is a number. Let us say seven. We are not fussy. Some number. And some fraction of a number. We could become distracted by these details, if we wish, but we do not wish. It is a number, the number exists, and it represents time, duration, the passage of time down the long well of history. Like water. In any case. We have discussed. You have discussed, we have discussed, severally and together, separately and together, and bilaterally, trilaterally, and even alone, alone, we have discussed. Your company is associated closely with a third company, a service provider. We do not scrutinize this association. We leave it for what it is. It is as it is, it is plainly to be seen. Any common artificer, tinkerer, shoemaker, cobbler, goatswain, or even cat of the ninth life, can see it for what it is. It is widely known. It is reputed. It is clarioned and alarumed, severally and universally, bruited abroad. It is known here and there and thereabouts. People know of it. No more needs to be said about it. You and they, together, form a thing. And we know about it. And you know about it. And indeed, the wife of the fish knows about it. Let it rest thus. Let that suffice. We have said what we wanted to say in this regard. Now. During the period leading up to this, you have used some information to perform some operations. This period need not be delineated, verified, or even imagined. It is not under discussion. Indeed, it is supremely irrelevant. It is in the past. It happened. It happened to you and not us and has no bearing on the months of our discussions other than to lead up to them and produce some output. Which we wish to discuss, in detail, and upon which we will touch, as the light of the sun touches the scale of the snake, in the sunny wasteland where the snake basks. We shall touch upon it lightly as the breeze, and then forcefully as the penis. we are going somewhere with this, collapse, await. Retard. Attend. Be mindful. We shall return to the penis, with the weight and force of the penis. We have not developed the metaphor yet, but the penis waits. The penis waits for its metaphor, patiently, untroubled, with dignity, as a man attends upon a summons from his betrothed, in a parlour, in the sunlight, without a snake. For he is the snake, the very snake. Or at least the penis bears a similarity to it, as you must agree. We digress. We continue: we are not discussing, as we have said, the period of your use of information to perform any operations. We do not care about this, nor the snake. We are indifferent to it. But it must be mentioned. It was stated, and must be mentioned. It has been mentioned. That is enough about it. The information, however, must be discussed. And the operations, shortly hereafter. Sirs, we require an intensive scrutiny of the information, for we are not at all convinced about it. It looks funny. It has the look of a drunk piece of information, or at the very least a vagrant, flatulent and homeless piece of information. It appears to stink, from a distance, and upon approaching it, it turns out to stink, even unto the ninth nostril of the cat. I cannot account for that cat, it continues to

infiltrate. There is nothing I can do about it. I suggest we ignore it. Perhaps it will kill the snake. Or rake its claws across the penis. Let us not think of that. So, this information: we do not trust it. Bluntly, we declare that we do not trust it. It is a suspect. It slopes along dark streets and pauses in doorways, wearing its drab overcoat, smoking French cigarettes, posing in its beret. It mutters darkly to children and old people. It waves its hands to make the crows scatter. On certain nights, when the moon is so and the gutters heave, we see this information sneak out of its garret and make for the red light district, where it stalks prostitutes and cavorts with strippers, drinks absinthe, injects heroin between its toes, vomits on itself and others, dies in storm drains and is reborn, bedraggled and skeletal, in the dawn of a ruined morning. We see it stagger bleakly home, we see its bleary eyes, we see its disreputable associates and its shabby clothes. That is what we say about your information. And of your operations, we have an opinion that it would pain and trouble us to express. We are almost willing to unleash the penis upon it, or if not the penis then the cat. But not the cat's penis. That is for the snake, alone. The operations, sirs, are grotesque. We are bewildered and shocked, and outraged and made sad. In the final analysis we are saddened. We witness your operations and we travel an emotional course from confusion through the pits and troughs of unspeakable horror only to end in sorrow. We wish only to stroke the cat, kill the snake, and make use of our penis. We seek comfort, sirs. In short, we are troubled and we seek comfort. Or stroke the penis and make use of the cat, but with certainty, certainty, sirs, kill the snake. We are not sure what we wish to stroke. But we shall persevere. And overcome. As it is written. Now sirs, your operations have produced an output, in the form of results, which you have written down and sent to us. It is these results which have been the subject of the discussions between our business and your business, for several months. Sirs, we assert that these results are insightful. We do not think they are helpful, useful or profitable, nor even accurate or true, but insightful, yes, this we assert. Your results provide us with galling insight, sirs, into the soul of the snake, the state of the cat, and the intent of the penis. These are the things we write to mention, and in mentioning, bring to the fore, for the sake of debate. Or if not debate then diatribe. For the sake of travesty. Your business has sought more permanent interactions with our business. Relations, we may say. We are uncertain of your intentions, we enquire about the honourable nature, or otherwise, thereof. Our business is unto us as a daughter is unto the snake. We wish to know, sirs, how you intend to handle her. You say that you wish to interrogate our information, but as we have already asserted, sirs, it is your own information that demands interrogation. It demands to be carried off in the night with a cowl over its face, roughly handled, with its hands tied. It demands to be bundled into something, perhaps a carriage, perhaps the belly of a whale, we are not particular on this point. But of the bundling we are certain. Your information demands to be bundled, ignominiously, as the bundler sneers at it, and contemptuously says "ha" or "pooh" or "enfin". Once bundled, it must be trundled, as in the days of old, upon an open cart in a dirty shift without shoes upon its feet, near naked, as was La Esmaralda nakedly trundled to be hanged before the hunchback rescued her into the sanctuary of Notre-Dame. As Victor Hugo said, sirs, on another occasion, here we have no words.

Sirs, you ask after additional insight. Your communications state this plainly. We are shocked. We are amazed and staggered. We reel about in our offices as if inebriated. We bash heads and slide out of our shoes like urchins. In short, we laugh at you. Risible, ridiculous, people without cats, made out of snakes and penises. You, sirs, you demand or request or intimate that you would like to be provided with, insight? Our senses shriek. You wish to penetrate our information with your information, regularly, as you say, without shame. You say 'regularly' and you do not even blush or wink. You do not even snicker, as the schoolboy snickers! You present to us a pious exterior whilst proposing diabolical improprieties. Our information - virginal, vestal, glowing softly like a newborn in the first garden at the start of Time - our information is not available, sirs, for penetration. Not once, not twice, not regularly. The very thought fills us with loathing: a generalized loathing that such ideas have been conceived and a particular loathing for you, for the snake and for the cat. Of these we loathe the snake more than the cat, because we remain hopeful that the cat will kill the snake. Afterwards, we intend to apply the penis. In short, sirs, we arrive here: we cannot continue to entertain your proposals. We were generous in receiving them when they arrived at our door unbidden, on foot, wearing dirty trousers poorly matched to their shirts and jackets. Your proposals seemed boisterous and ungainly and one of them breathed alcoholically into a harmonica. Music, grating music, almost erupted. We were forced to put a stop to it for the sake of our neighbours and our reputation, and we instructed our butler to bring your proposals inside, into the sun room. There, sirs, they have soiled the floor and besmirched the upholstery and made free with the cat and the snake and, dare we say it, antagonized our penis. Your proposals must go. They can no longer be countenanced in our house. They must be put out, preferably out the back, among the garbage pails and peels of fruit, and sent on their ragamuffin way with a boot in their pants. Ruffians and charlatans and squawkers of blues. Sirs, forgive us, but we must now withdraw. We are tired. We are vexed. We do not know what we are going to do with the snake, and the cat is hungry. As for the penis, sirs - we cannot even begin to describe our concerns in that regard. Yours sincerely, etc