Dear Paul,
February 15, 2008—
You died today—maybe you know that.
Twenty-four. It’s a number. Jack Bauer. Chromium. Willie Mays. You.
It’s not a life.
As I look at you, lying on your stomach, propped up on your elbows, in your room with three members of the Tulsa Police Department in and around your door, you don’t look like you were ready to die. Your face is full; your cheeks have color. You look asleep (on your stomach, it’s how you sleep), healthy, you’re still in your clothes, passed out from a night of drinking, perhaps, staring at a laptop.
-This Land Press
