I remember you, my friend, my most intimate ghost, dead as long as I’ve known you.
Allow me a toast as much as an epitaph.
It is that instant of confusion when you trap and suspend us in your writing, where the impossible feels familiar, where our sense of certainty trips over its feet but we never fall.
Both of us squint from looking toward death.
The man I will never meet, but the ghost I will call my friend because he left it for me in his words for everyone.
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