Do I shout or do I whisper when I try to speak to them ahead? Them ahead, only slightly, ahead of me.

Our hearts die slivered, don't they?

Good old feller, brave enough to show me his dying Salton Sea as well as his secret spring in the desert. A good old fellow indeed. Sweeter than the coffee the Devil drinks, so I'm told. So much less so, I've only scraps of paper and this emptiness to offer.

I know you can hear me and I know you'll understand when I say that I'd rather shoot the tears off a pretty woman's face than mop a bar-room floor with any fool who'd slight you where I could hear. Yet both are so sadly true.

Never shook your hand, nitwit, but I'd damned sure counted on it. That chunk of me you took with you? Take good care of it. I'll be needing it back. I 'spect I'll be gettiing pussy by the boatload until we slap backs next, and I intend to rub it in. Every once in a while I'll do the porking in your behest.

As will I cry.

Good man, good friend, good man: we'll catch up down the road a piece. Wish I had words as beautiful as yours, but I don't.

I loved you. See you down the road a piece, where it's always New Year's Day and the drinks are free and God's own wild man is coverinng your ass.

Down the road a piece, dude. Down the road.

Guy Neal