Dear Brother

Thank you for thinking of me,
sending along your proud
description of your Borneo
bird-sighting trip and your
acquisition of a wood-sculpture
tapir, the exploits involved in
shipping it homeward, and your
remarkable repair of its injury.

You labelled this missive a
"short story", named it The Tapir
and sent it on its way. My response,
after reading the verbose, awkward,
self-celebratory account was of
glaze-eyed tedium, unable to focus
bored eyes to the conclusion.

Which, I trust, was every bit as
gleefully surfeit with ego as what it
followed. Tell you what: at some
future date should I ever succumb
to the allure of distinguishing myself
as a polymath, write a scientific,
botanical treatise, wax soporific on
ecology and send it off to you

preparatory to publishing, I
wholeheartedly invite you - no,
I insist - to criticize that feeble,
hubristic result. Mid-life crisis?
I've had mine, long ago, welcome to
that most classic of life's engagements.
I shall take care not to label my effort
an academic exercise, however.

Febriley yours; grin dear soul and
bear it. Ego-puncturing is also an
art you will admit. Unfortunate,
but occasionally required - as the
occasion demands it - unequivocally.