dear michael,

i ******* hate you for wanting to be unhappy. do you and riley realize how ******* miserable it is? it sounds ******* to explain it that way, but you don't seem to get it. being unhappy is not poetic. it is not beautiful. sometimes, it produces beautiful things, but the sadness itself is ugly.

have you ever thought about walking in front of a car? have you ever thought about walking in front of a car and it passing right through you? like you aren't even there? because that's what sad feels like. not being hit by a car, but being so insignificant and utterly gone that it could hit you without shedding blood.

where do the parts go? where do the pieces go when a car hits a person? i'm not talking about their body parts, i'm talking about their soul -- god, i hate that word, but sometimes the words we hate (***, ******, ****) are the only ones that fit. words always have a place. do souls?

i'm starting to think the answer is no. not everyone will be a stockbroker. just like not everyone will rise above their hood. some of us just float. i'm part of an eternal migration south, michael. the mentality, not the place. are you coming with me?

are you sure you want to?