My Dearest Zuckerberg,

I think the elderly grocerystoreman has lost his mind. Why is it that whenever I visit his store so that I may purchase one of his goods (puddings by the pound and junk and spiced killgrinded cow in an addictively unsatisfying stale orange envelope made of, presumably, wheat, or corn? (The kind that when I bite on it it sticks to my teeth and stains my palate with thoughts of factory-cookeries somewhere in a third world country)) UP pops he like a wildly flankhaired coocoobird, sharp hairy ear and nosetendrils protruding at the dent of his upper lip reminding one of… of, DEATH! The shadowy claws of DEATH protruding from and clawing at the face of a man who can no longer hear or smell yet insists to do and die in slow motion before my very eyes, each day wrinkling further in imperceptible ways and in UNMENTIONABLE places, gibbering an ineffectual recombinant pidgin of tongues that tickle barely my ear so that here and there I say “Ah!” and smile simply and there and here he SUDDENLY JABS me with English and I scramble but, Zuck, off he goes again into the structured madness of a verbal semiotics which my neural net can interpret only as noise, white and black and peppered like swirlylocks of a middleaged lothario, slave still and for one last go to that shriveled greedy chromosome, and why not, buying pounds for pounds, indiscriminately and without remorse, as he surely was some many lustless lustra prior, married, which he must remember fondly whenever a goodsome pair of gelatinous mounds tingle his doorbell? Where was he before and what was he doing there and why?

I wish I could understand Cantonese too.