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2002-06-10 10:39 a.m.


On the evening of May 14th, I walked across the street to the beach, took a bunch of photos that were too dark to be useful, then came home and wrote this letter to an old friend.
Theresa,

It was so strange, really. It was as if for no reason. I ran across the street tonight to the beach. The crisp ocean wind slapped my face; I hid my hands in my pockets.

My home -- if there is such a thing -- behind me, an endless star–lit ocean in front of me, and above, a cold blanket of stars and darkness to infinity. I stood on a hill of sand and marvelled like a child at the huge, jet–night sky. The stars were so bright! The planets were so bright! Maybe it was they who called me out of my comfortable room?

I fumbled with my phone in my pocket as if I forgot what it was. And thoughts linked to other thoughts, and to you. Phone messages, memories, songs, photographs in an old Samsonite cosmetic case that smells like makeup used to smell before I was alive. I played with my phone some more and thought of calling you, but it seemed too late for a good boy to be calling someone he hasn't spoken to in years at some number with an area code he doesn't recognize to chat about life or death or how he wrote a song about the last phone call he had with you.

It feels so incomplete, but, I don't know what to say besides this.

Love,

Justin



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