“Bill, how are you? I fell last month and broke my leg. It hurt. I’m feeling better now. Write me back!”
“I miss you, Bill. Rain, wind, sleet, hail. Rain, wind, sleet, hail. Rain, wind, sleet, hail. This place is a shithole.”
“Bill, I moved today. It’s much nicer here. I even met someone on the train. She has pleasing features and a gentle temperament. She could be my Daisy. Write me some time, alright?”
“Bill, why do you never write me back? You know the woman I met? She’s a whore. I’m wasting my time.
“Remember when we were kids? We were on your roof, and we had those fireworks. Oh, those lights, like fireflies in the sky. I miss that.”
“This is the last time I’m writing you. I dropped a dish. It shattered. I shattered. It’s a cancer of the brain, and still you never write. We had the best of times, and the worst of times, but I guess every story has its ending. I’m just about there.
Pennies in the mouths of the dead
Isn’t that silly?