 Not well, John. Not at all well. I live like a nun in a cloister, solitary celibate. I hate it. And you, John? Hmm. I live like a monk in an abbey. Ditto, ditto. I hate it. Write to me with sentimental effusion. Let me revel in romantic illusion. Do you still smell of vanilla and spring air? And is my favorite lover's pillow still firm and fair? What was there, John, still is there, John.