Wish you were here. I mean, not dead. I mean, not lost on a mountain somewhere. I mean, you know what I mean. I miss talking about coffee or that bar you found in Brooklyn or the right way to eat a Reeses Cup. I can’t sleep anymore. I mean, I don’t sleep anymore. I mean, I won’t sleep anymore. And by the way, you’re supposed to eat the edges off first so then you’re left with the peanut butter-chocolatey middle part to savor. I almost called you last night to tell you I just finished reading some gut-splitting poetry but I remembered that you’re dead. I mean, lost on a mountain somewhere. I mean, you know what I mean. It’s just insomnia and me. Bad knees, your old friends, dead friends, no friends anymore. Burning holes in the night sky. All we wanted was to live like the movies do. How we will both ache when the end credits roll.