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You can stop waiting next to the mail slot, sucking gin from a gerbil bottle, for here is my letter. It’s not a great one, I’ll send more as the strength returns to my brittle bones and feeble brain. I’ve spent the last 5 days fighting with a disease I can only describe as Oregon-Trailian. I remember thinking during a fever dream on Saturday, “Ben would think these fever thoughts are funny, I should write them down and send him a letter about them later,” but then I threw up, and my dreams and bile were sucked down, as is the custom of our hemisphere, counter-clockwise, into the commode, where I would send one of my fish just one day later, adding insult to injury, dreams to dregs, fish to poop in nature’s cruel and unending spiral-death-tango.
I’m getting weak again, so I should get back to work.
So long, and thanks for the soup,