The following was written on April 29, 2019, in an effort to circumvent the permanent goodbye I made to Succubus. I wrote to myself in ink and took a picture of what I wrote. In the end, the image sent was too low-res to read so I communicated nothing:
 
How do I talk to you without going against the sanctity of my word and music?

 
I talk to myself and take a picture of my talking to myself.

 
One of my favorite movies is “Cleo 5 to 7”. A few hours after I saw it, Michel Legrand, the pianist in the movie, as well as the film’s composer, had died. The movie is about death. I wanted to die, without really knowing it. Maybe I was already dead. If it is an experience of nothingness, I certainly was approaching that kind of inner existence of blank.

 
If I had a singer-friend, I would recommend the movie to her, for nothing else than the music is great, the narrative and perspective is harmonious to mine in small areas.

 
If my singer-friend asked me how I was, I would tell her I am without electricity and close to no money without even having started my musical-death-misadventure into the wilderness. I would tell my friend that without a piano that works, and without a place to play it alone (these suburban streets… no wonder people work in buildings) if I had not done some inner mental work, I would have reached for the button, that one pushed, would promise me a painless, gentle theft of my life during that night’s rest. The button would also remove my car from the street, make my family and friends forget I existed, and let me finally cry before I went away. but it was easier to live than to make such a button.

 
“Sing!” I would say to my singer-friend. Sing until the whole world listens, and each note you hold is worthy of gilded frames in the museum of frozen time.

 
My red pen ran out of ink. Until we have whatever we want, may we never run out of what gives reason to our existence. Otherwise, I will join the pen in the trash can.

 
This, I would say to a singer-friend.