I know you do not exist, but I have to tell you this. I’m sending you this letter because I do not know what else I should do. Because every morning I wake up with the thought that I have to send you this letter, that I have to use these words and tell you the things nesting into the folds of my brain. I’ve read hundreds of books about you and the way you lure people into liking you, loving you, and finally obsessing over you. One of those books specifically talked about the way in which you switch faces and genders because ultimately you do not have a face or a fixed gender. You are a man when somebody needs a man, and a woman when somebody needs one, or both, when, at night, you cajole whores into believing that you are their saviour and have come to redeem their promiscuous souls. Or when you wake up adolescents by knocking at their window twenty minutes to four, when sleep is the sweetest. It is when you take the appearance of an androgynous creature that you are most frightening. Painters have seen you a couple of times, I think, because there are many paintings in which I have seen your haunting figure. A man, yet a woman. A creature made out of muscles, yet bearing the softness and the vices female beauty provokes into innocent meat. Each time you come with such cherubic temptation, your words honeyed, mellifluous voice, and I cannot keep you away from me because only the thought of you makes me riant. You are breathtakingly beautiful because you display the beauty that I have never seen, embody the things that I will never have, and at first I did believe you when you said you were a part of another world. This world could not have fashioned a thing like you. But then I thought you were a thing of this world because I’ve seen you change faces, manipulate boys and girls into making love to you. I’ve seen the kisses your lips have recorded along the way, smelled all the smells that have crept into your skin until now, saw the flickering images on your retina, felt the vibrating passion in your words. I’ve realised yesterday that you have your own world and I will never be a part of it. Your world is made out of sleepless nights and dreams dreamt with the loudness of music, colourful dresses and black suits, distant smiles received from unknown people and Beauty sitting at the next table smoking. You live in places where true beauty comes out to play. You said I should come with you, visit the others, see the world, send distant smiles. But I cannot be a part of your world, you see, that’s not my thing. I do not have the words you have because I have nothing to talk about except those awfully real things like the uncomfortable chair and the possibly unwashed mug. I do not need your mercy, I can do it by myself. So do stay away from me! Still, you come with such angelic temptation, honeyed words and mellifluous voice…