Before I write another word, I must tell you: last night, you really outdid yourself. The décor, as always, was superb; all those pastels, the pink and white roses, that antique gilt porcelain. And the string quartet. However did you get them to come? They haven't played together for years. Or so I'm told. I don't follow such things these days. But your guests were suitably impressed. And, as always, suitably impressive. That Arab ambassador, the prince, insisted I go out on his yacht. It was very kind. I told him I'd love to. That I'd call him next week.

But I was lying.

I was lying because, dear, dear friend, I'm done with next week. I'm done with tomorrow. Soon after I sign this, I'll be done with today.

I can't. I don't how how to say it more plainly than that. “Can't what, my darling?” I hear you say, and for a moment the warmth returns, the eagerness... but it fades. Even – how well I've hid this – even sometimes when I'm with you, it fades.

Columbus was wrong, you know: the world is flat. If you live long enough, and do enough wonderful things, and have enough money, but no purpose, never ever a purpose, it doesn't matter how many flights, how many cruises, how many exclusive jaunts you take. How many good causes you lend your name to. Bless me, it wouldn't matter if you took a string and wrapped it around the world and stood with one end in each hand, you'd still have to accept it, the awful, unfashionable truth: the Earth is flat. There's nothing left to break the monotony, to suggest a sparkle beyond the horizon.

Yes, my dear, the Earth is flat. But I'm about to put a dent in it.

Goodbye, my heart. You almost made Life worth living. Please believe me, it's no fault of yours if you failed.