The last one was the most difficult to read.
It wasn't very long, nor incoherent. It was extremely clear. But clarity is sometimes a problem. It might elucidate everything, but it does not always enforce the rationale behind it. Things could be clear, but not necessarily rational.
Therefore, it was extremely difficult to read. But the most interesting thing was that the last letter, the last salvo, was not complete. When I had finished reading it, it was still incomplete. There were enormous silences that needed filling in. Several gargantuan voids that needed filling in. Many unarticulated fears that needed assuaging. Not all of these could be done, not all of them could be accomplished. None of them could even be mentioned.
Even then, the clarity of the last letter was astounding. The clarity struck home the point so vehemently, so loudly, so articulately, that it frightened the senses. That it made things so lucid and frighteningly sound. All the distances, the differences, and - the most difficult of all - their many things in common.
So there it established its purpose. It stated it in plainly, in words that ran into one another and didn't stop till the very end. It ended with a word that much of this had begun with. The irony, and the similitude, of everything finally jolted me. Helplessness is a much abused word. You don't know what it means until it ends. And, when it does, it ends like it always does.