Come to me. Hold my hand. I am on my deathbed, and this breath counts
among my last. I have lived a full life, but, like so many thoughtful
people who grew busy and distracted along the way, I feel regrets. As I
inhale, they cut me deeply. So listen. I confess I should have devoted
more hours to scouring Youtube for obscure music videos from the
1980's. I did not refresh my email inbox as frequently as I could have.
I read far too little breaking news of movies in pre-production, of
politicians' sordid loves and hypocrisies, and of the gruesome murders
of children. And, if I am honest, I occasionally withheld updates to my
Facebook status. I never opened more than eight browser tabs at once. I
never found the perfect porn. My laptop trembles now upon my bloated
belly, and beyond it I will never see my lap again. The hour is late.
My passwords grow hazy. Please, I beg of you: come here. Type for me.
Click that link. And adjust my browser's default font size one more
time. Also, Wigleaf, I am thirsty. Bring ice chips. Bring champagne.
Yours still and yours forever,
- - -
Read EB's story, "Mallard."
w i g · l e a F