I died some sunny spring day, in March I believe, though of what year I cannot say. I awaken anew with the daffodils, their perennial joys blooming across the mountainside as I find myself once again in a blue sundress, melted snow underfoot.

I like to speak in metaphors and riddles; so often, precious little value is found in saying exactly what you mean. The ink that bleeds through the paper says the most of all.

I am prone to falling down any number of rabbit holes, for routine is comforting, but monotony is dull. I can feed you tidbits from the history of chess computing, analyses of games I've never played, oddities from yet-unsolved Internet mysteries. Such puzzles keep me great company during the long winter months.

You will find little of note but much of worth in my letters; but perhaps only I consider these scraps of ephemera worthy.