Dear S______,
The waves woke me up today and I can not recall how I ever made it this far, out here, on the beach. My bag beneath my head is still dry; as is my notebook and the candle. The empty bottle, the means by which these lost thoughts were found by you, beside my hand. My hand and face and stomach burnt from the absent sun.
The memory of your taste upon my tongue, too late to last. That last thought I am savoring long as I can, trying to conjure up some kinetic force before
. . .
after all was said and done I can only hope you can still find the force to laugh. There are reasons still,
you would have liked this beer—there were books I wanted you to read instead of this tripe, but they would not fit in this bottle. Oh, there were many, too many to list here, too many to read, too many to recall.
Save one: The Late Man. Look for it and you will know.
Adieu