I remember

one of the greatest days. In the penthouse of the Commodore in Dayton, in the corner room with open windows, with my friends, inhaling the storm and going out for more cigarettes, talk of endless and forgotten importance, one cut of a Dayton collage, almost everything else that happened paling in comparison.

I remember

and all you

People that I’ve left behind. Don’t you wish that you had a voice?

In that sense in which history is written by the victor, how are you enjoying life as a mute? Does it suit you, playing for the losing team? Are you glad you’ve been forgotten? Do you think I’ll go to hell for having something less than sympathy for the average path? I don’t believe in hell. But if I go there it will surpass the anonymous, the typical, the simply fraternal, to which you tightly cling.

and all you