refigured in language

I have, in this long radio silence, continued to be obsessed with death and dying.

C'est au cause d'un souvenir, pas-invitee, qui m'approcha d'une nuit noir. Un souvenir d'un ami, qui s'appelle quelque chose... je ne peux pas me souvenir, ironiquement. Il est quelquefois mort, cet ami.

It's not the one you think, another in that long sentence of three objects (3 actually written, the others assumed, always present in their absence), of which one does not belong, and into which you read the correspondence I bid you not (to).

It's another friend. I think you've met his ghost, often found in the space between pages 143 and 144. He lurks there, activated in death, forceless in life. And before buying his summer home on the far shore, he watched his many friends and colleagues make the same investment, and always said "maybe next year" until it was too late.

And now it's next year, or we're on the banks of it, you and I. And summer homes with glistening porches and silly fetes with banal conversation we imagine to be earth-shattering dazzle us through our binoculars because we can only see and not hear. And, disappointed with the slim-to-none(xistent) portfolios our brokers oversee, we meander back and send letters among those of us that are never dead, relishing the time we spend in the hoary places and whitewashed rooms (and panelled ceilings and theaters with the little swiveling desks on the chairs) with those who are only sometimes it.

Then again, your sister. Send her my regards, pick something for her, she likes blue, they remind her of another prince (neither of us). Dump them overboard with my wishes.

I had the value meal, filet-o-fish.

Elsewhere (not to say, "nowhere")

Don Quixote d.l.m.