My dearest Caesar,
You will have noticed by the time this reaches you, but I've gone again. I wanted to say goodbye in person, but I simply couldn't find the strength, and for that, I apologize. You deserve more than impersonal letters delivered a week too late.
Please don't worry for me--you have more than enough to worry for already. Please also reassure anyone else who might inquire that I am . . . well, not 'all right,' exactly, but at least alive.
I suppose I should explain: I've taken my car and the sum total of my worldly possessions to San Francisco, where I have checked myself into a psychiatric inpatient facility. I realize that's immensely far from where you are, but it was highly rated and queer-friendly, and was the only such facility this side of the Rockies. So far things aren't horrendous, although the word 'alcoholism' has been mentioned with grating frequency, and there have been rather more questions about my past than I generally tolerate. Still, I've managed to acquire the entirety of Cicero's speeches in the original Latin, so I doubt I shall be terrifically bored.
I will come back, someday. I don't know when, and I refuse to torture myself with speculation. When I am well, I suppose, or well enough. When I won't have to leave again. When I can do more than simply survive myself.
I love you, dearly and deeply and without reservation. I always will. And I will come back, someday.
Until then, I remain
Yours,
--Isadoro Ramon
