Subj: (no subject)
Date: 4/29/99 02:34:56 EST
From: (Henry McCoy)
To: (Robert Drake)

My friend,

Given that I am supposed to be a man of words, of
letters, I don't know why it should so constantly be of
late that I have none. Given that I am also supposed to
be a man of courage, I don't know why I should be so
likewise bereft of it. Though I seem to still have a near
infinite supply of pomposity...

I can't face you.

It is not that there is nothing I need to say to you.
Bobby, the list of things I need to tell you is endless.
But all the things on it are apologies; you refuse to
accept them, and I can't not apologise. I can't find
other words. I can't find any words at all. You say you
are sick of my sorry, I am just sick, heart and soul,
that I have done this to you.

You ask me what I'm afraid will happen if I come home,
I'm not sure I even know. Everything you say is entirely
sensible, logical, rational (perhaps I should check for
pods after all.)

But I just can't seem to come home. I just... can't.

And I think you understand me better than you pretend to.
You usually do.

A wise man would probably delete this and start over, and
I must be very wise, because I've done that twelve or so
times already. But it's late, and I am so tired, and I've
gone too long without replying already.

And I don't want you to think that I'm ignoring you. I
never do, you know.



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