Dear Jon,

I like reading letters for particular persons.

You and I talk about simulating each other. I've got a little Jon (not a Lil Jon) inside me. He tells me about chemistry, and systems, and to not take it all so seriously, dude. That voice is one of the wisest and best parts of me. Thanks.

I can't simulate just anybody. Only high-fidelity training data creates simulations, and we've shared the human experience. I cherish our training data -- years of spats, riffs, tiffs, spills, wins, and shenanigans.

My blog sometimes feels like a pro-wrestling match, where I pretend(?) to beat myself up for others' enjoyment. But I always lose those fights. After crowds grow bored, Vince McMahon sends me to the guillotine.

You once said something about how you talked to your brother in your head. Okay, I don't remember the words, but it made an impression on me, and I'm not sure what that impression is. An echo of an echo rattles in my skull now.

Long ago, we had a late-night (or early-morning?) Uber ride to LAX. We started chatting about anabolic steroids. Our driver talked to us about pro-wrestling.

I'm sorry I abandoned you. I'm always so desparate to find greener pastures for us. Was it green enough already? I'm glad I'm back.

Litte Jon (not Lil Jon) is great, but he's not you. Not even close. I need more training data.