sculptureThe world is a little quieter. A little less clamorous, my friend. A little less wise, and a little less petulant.

I need to tell you that a stillness, the opposite of a freshening breeze, moved across the landscape until it came to me, like news, like information from far away, and this stillness is sitting here still. I need to tell you this because you will not, can not, notice it.

The words are a little more orderly, my friend, like school children who have been chastened and ceased their absurd games.

I need to tell you too, my friend, that we cared, and you were an ass, and you didn’t need to go.

The weather will change again. This is the worst of it. The weather will change, and we will go on, and you will not, and when luminous joyousness erupts in bliss in a corner of the sky, in the twinkle of your child’s eye, in the beginning of the day, we will remember you, my friend. But you could have been here yourself without all the drama. The days were yours too. The words sulk off the page.

I love you, my friend, and you are an asshole.

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