Dear Wigleaf

I've finally completed the programming on my AI postcard-generating software, the entity writing this record on my behalf. It took me the better frame of this millennium to design the requisite software, given all my time spent haunting unadorned shadows around this sphere you call earth. Please forgive certain glitches or inconsistencies in the text, the program is finicky. Further corrections may not be possible. I'm currently listening to the waves as they smash against the rocks in an unnamed port village near the Cedeira Bay in Galicia. My memory tells me I'm looking for my long-lost lover. I followed clues that led me here, from Zaragoza, Rotterdam before that, Ankara before that. On it goes. I don't know if I will find her here. North Atlantic winds resemble haunted screams. I watch the sea, from my little room, crashing in repeating cycles. I've been here for 134 days. 56 years. 340 years. I apologize for myself. I'm trying to establish a routine. My missing children number in the thousands, following in their mother's footsteps. It has been a necessary condition of my situation that I use these programs for all current and future correspondence. I hope she doesn't take that personally. I suspect I will find something. My next program will name my future stories. If I can complete it in time. I've always been bad at story titles. It gets harder, as my memory decays. But I'm optimistic. I know I will find something.


Yours,

Derek