Listen to me, bub: it’s important: I need you to live your life while I try to save my own. If there’s one scrap of fight left hiding in me I will find it, but I am the only one who can. It seems that nobody on earth can help me but, luckily, dead men speak to me regularly. Hemingway is keeping me alive tonight so you don’t need to worry. I will see another midnight but I will see it alone. And unless I can conjure one iota of belief in the possibility of recovery, and muster up any semblance of strength from my body (the two things I need to begin the Herculean task of rebuilding myself from nothing), this is the way it’s gotta be. I’m sorry, truly. Leave me be and then I’ll believe that you love me.


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