To the man who couldn’t be man enough to bow out completely. The one who shared his name and his bitterness for the world. Who saw life and meaning at the bottom of the meaningless bottle. Who’s worth is equivalent to that of sour milk. Say you find reason for the life you’ve led, the heavy, insignificant life.
We share a name, and a name alone, and of that, nothing more. I wish you all the luck to finding the loneliness of living just a ghost. You are every piece of drifting wood, the corner of the blanket we tuck under the mattress. The father of a fatherless child. An unseen monster in the closet.
Everything I am, or hope to be, everything I’ve accomplished, is because of your absence. And if you’ve taught me anything, it’s how to disappear.