This humble letter, on hotel stationary, is misleadingly dated the day after tomorrow - he can’t help himself, little deceits such as these remind him that for the moment at least, he is alive, and this deceit in particular promises that he will still be alive in two days time. He has always made his promises for the day after tomorrow; after all, tomorrow comes too quickly to fob off whoever is after him - his former business associates, his latest wife, his children, his creditors, his doctors, Death - but the day after tomorrow is neither so close that he has to make plans to actually do what he promised, but not so far that people will suspect that he will do nothing at all. This flimsy scrap, scrawled by his ancient hands, knarled with stiff bones and bulging veins, his paper skin dotted with brown spots and broken with roughly-red eczema, his once impetuous and slapdash handwriting now simply scratched and barely legible, may be the most important thing he has ever written.