Dear Dan,

I miss you. I see you puffing so much at cigarettes you could push a sailboat with your breath. You’ll die of cancer probably. You’re torturing yourself. You just talked to Max. It was a good chat and you came up for air from your relentless anxiety. I’d like to be Max’s beard. It’s a lot better than living. He’s got the beard of the mountains with specks of grey snow throughout them. I wish it was snowing like sugar powder sleep. I don’t know what to tell ya buddy. Never thought it would get this bad. A ruffle of wind could knock you over. It probably should. You could use the taste of cement. Might rattle you back to yourself. I wait for you. It’d be nice to be you again. After all, that’s what God put you here for.

Your buddy (sometimes),