Hey Man,

If there's one thing I fear, it's your seemingly impending death.

I learned you were admitted in the hospital today. I expect laughter; and you will probably desensitize us by poking fun at creating eulogies for you when this shit hits the fan.

But I'm still fucking scared. My dad would've probably resembled your personality had he not been a corporate slave. He wanted to be a drummer and / or sing and make music, and / or draw. He made a sketch in pointilism on the back page of some report, according to accounts from my brother -- the only fucking awesome drawing he ever saw from my dad.

I haven't been sleeping well since the play. Stress, yes, and the stories you told Manna and I.

We're on our way to the hospital. See you there.