dear_letter tt the squirrel sat at his table. he wanted to write a letter but he didn't know who to. he he made a start by writing: dear he put down his pen and thought hard. the wind started blowing gently. the window was open and the blank, white paper rustled impatiently. "very well, letter," thought the squirrel. "i'll think of someone for you in a minute. is it possible to write a letter to a letter?" he wondered. it was a strange thought. it was like tapping yourself on your shoulder while you were asleep and saying, "squirrel...don't sleep." his thoughts tripped over each other. "according to the ant," he thought to himself, "you can write a letter to anyone, even the rain, or a heatwave, or the night." he picked up his pen again and wrote. "dear letter, i'm the squirrel. of course, you know that. it feels very strange to be writing to you, because you get bigger as i write. and if i were to start again, you'd suddenly be very small. so i never know exactly what you're like." the squirrel stopped writing. "this is a very strange letter," he thought. "how should i send it? and how is the letter going to read itself? folded up? or smoothed out? and what about writing back? can a letter write a letter?" his mind began to grind. it felt as if heavy crates were being dragged from one side of his head to the other. quickly, he signed his name at the bottom of the letter. the wind was blowing harder now, and suddenly the letter to the letter shot up in the air, flew around briefly, then exploded. it wasn't a loud bang, but the squirrel nearly fell over backward, chair and all. hundreds of scraps of paper fluttered down and fell on his shoulders and back and on the table and floor. there was paper everywhere. each piece was so small that not even one single letter fitted on it. the squirrel nodded and thought. "that's because of me." the wind had dropped. "could the letter have been angry?" wondered the squirrel. "or did it jump to pieces from or because someone had finally written to it?" he stood up and paced back and forth across his room, carefully avoiding the pieces of letter that were littering the floor. "goodbye, letter," he said softly. the pieces of letter rustled and moved a little. for a moment, the squirrel thought he heard them reply, "goodbye, squirrel." "that's impossible," he told himself. there are things that really are impossible. he was certain of that. 130203 what's it to you? who go blather from