#lost friend

[mephistosdreamvisons]

In Dreams, You're Still With Me.

[byoldervine]

There’s only one person in the world aside from myself who has ever read even a small part of my book. There are endless lovely things I could say about him, but I’ll keep it mostly on-topic here to avoid things getting too long or too emotional

He asked if he could read it, and when I told him it won’t be ready for a very long time, his reply was “But I won’t be alive for a very long time. So I want to see it before I’m not alive anymore”

He got to read the book. Just a chapter or two. He had me read them to him, and he listened with full attention the whole time. Afterwards, he said it was fantastic, and asked why it wasn’t ready yet. I don’t think he fully understood why it would need editing, nor that writing a first draft can take years on its own

But yesterday, I woke up to a very sad message; he was right that he wouldn’t be alive to see the finished book. He passed away over the weekend, after a long struggle and decline. He was a wonderful, kind, thoughtful, cheerful man, and exactly the kind of person I wish we could all be more like. Things won’t be the same without him

Rest in peace, my friend

[o-kurwa]

[piratedescieux]

you're drunk somewhere

your black hair mussed on someone's forehead, you stare at them with love in your black eyes,

a love that is shallower, faded like a painting in the burning light of the chemical sun.

and you used to love so clear-pool deep with little bright fishes and peaceful waving algae, so refreshing such an overarching soul-love

but last I heard you were puking blood in new orleans, on freight trains, you hamfist mickeys and the depths of your gaze shrank away from the world.

last time I saw you I was up on a ladder and you told me a story: you'd picked up a dime bag off the floor; my heart fell through the soles of my feet, then.

last time I glimpsed you it looked like you couldn't remember the friendship we'd shared— as though I was a shade from some murky and overyoung innocent time—

a ghost from when we were little and lucid

[bitsofyoustill]

(Posting this in case someone recognizes him. His face is covered for privacy. I’ll remove it if asked)

We met on Omegle when we were teenagers.

You were in England, maybe London. I was across the ocean.

Your name was Max. On Kik, your display name included Snowleo, maybe short for snow leopard. I think you were a furry.

We talked a lot that year. Kik, Steam, one time I think even a video call. You played bass or guitar, listened to metal and rap, and had a younger sister. You told me you once visited a friend in Australia while figuring yourself out.

You told me you had family in Boston. You struggled with depression, and self-harm. I didn’t know what to say back then, but I understood more than I let on.

I think we said we liked each other. Maybe even loved each other. I remember wanting to meet you, but we were just teenagers with no money and no idea how.

I sent you a letter once, with drawings. I remember how nervous I was, waiting for you to get it.

One of your last messages to me said:

“I know this is a bad idea, but I just wanted to say I’m sorry. I feel like I never gave you the attention you deserved. I still think of you all the time.”

I never forgot that because I still have it saved.

I don’t know where you are now. Maybe you’ve forgotten me completely. Maybe you’re married. Maybe you’re not here anymore.

But just so you know, I still remember you.

I’m not sure why I'm sharing this now. Maybe because I'm 29. Maybe because I'm going through a breakup and reminiscing about everyone I've loved.

But you were special. I just hope you're okay and happy.

[haze-was-thinking]

𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝔾𝕣𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝔸𝕔𝕥…

𝙾𝚑, 𝙸 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝—

𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚎, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚛𝚞𝚖𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚕, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕— 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚟𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝙸’𝚖 𝚊 𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚙 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍, 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚝, 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚙𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚗𝚎.

𝙸𝚝’𝚜 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚞𝚜, 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚊 𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚙𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞,𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚖𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚜𝚞𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚙𝚞𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢.

𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚟𝚒𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚖 𝚜𝚘 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚞𝚝𝚒𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚢, 𝚜𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚢, 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙸 𝚊𝚕𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞, 𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚒𝚣𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚞𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚠 𝚘𝚗 𝚖𝚎.

𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝙸 𝚕𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑, 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚎𝚕𝚜𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝙸 𝚍𝚘 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚟𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚗 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚗?

𝙶𝚘 𝚊𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍—𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚝𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝, 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎. 𝚈𝚘𝚞’𝚟𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚝 𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚍.

-𝚆𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚝 𝚒𝚗𝚔, 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙸𝚗𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝙿𝚎𝚗.

[fieriframes]

[AND GOT CERTIFIED TO SLING NEAPOLITAN PIES. AND WHEN HE OPENED HIS OWN PIZZA JOINT IN 2011, HE NAMED IT AFTER A LONG-LOST FRIEND. IT'S NAMED AFTER MY FIRST DOG. HUNGARIAN POINTERS, OR VIZSLAS, THEY HAVE RED FUR, AND "CANE ROSSO" MEANS "RED DOG" IN ITALIAN.]