When I realize it's been a little over two years since we've seen, let alone spoken, to one another, I catch myself shocked by the elasticity and abstractness of time, and saddened by the fact it's been so long. I'm sorry, how about you?
It was back when we put the bruja in ground. Did we, by unintended inaction, bury our friendship as well? It is a question I ask myself sometimes, late at night, when the demons come for tea. The answer illudes me.
My daughter graduates high school in a few short days hence. Yeh, daddy's little girl has gone and gotten all grown up behind our backs, but right before our eyes. As a celebration of this circumstance, there is the matter of a free show being put on by Roger Clyne and the Peacemakers, which we mean to attend.
I send you correspondences, using the ways and means to reach you I have on hand. Due diligence. The likelihood of those ways and means being valid? Perhaps I should rather go and get myself good and drunk, go out back, and shoot rubber bands at the stars, because I might actually hit one.
Even through the dismissal that you'll not respond, that I'll not see you, I hold out a modicum of hope. Perhaps you'll prove me wrong. You've done it before and we can get back up and we can do it all over again. Maybe I'll run into you at the show, and I'd even help you up. We could share then a tequila to Mekong as we always used to.
"And if your bottle's empty
then help yourself to mine,
Thank you for your time-
And here's to life..."