exquisite fucking boredom

This is an excerpt from a postcard I received from a friend recently.  It is reproduced here with zero permission from the author. I just had to share it.

I hired 82, 083 private detectives.  One for every leaf on the tree outside my flat. I receive updates twice a day.  All absurdly poetic.  Schmaltzy mystical elation.  I've asked them to report just the facts, nothing more. Please - just the key details.  The specific particulars.  They can't help themselves though.  They weep with joy every night because their particular leaf did this or that.  82, 083 people sobbing, in loud love.   Sweet, but unendurable.  I've bought earplugs for the whole neighbourhood.  They know it's only until Autumn, and then the detectives will drift off, one by one, in heart, honeyed, hot pursuit.