Dear H,
It's 3:00 in the morning, centre of the abyss--man I've got the spins. My bed is a winter, and there are mirrors everywhere. I am a blue whale cruising the 8th dimension.
I've come from the asshole of existence and spent some time on the straight and narrow. Full of terror and wherewithal, I was married. We had a child and a sofa. It was comfortable, but then things got crazy.
I was on the sofa, shagging your darling Edwina like a dog, instead of writing to you, you twat, you idiot, you piece of dog shit, which is how I think of you. Oh, and my wife...
Remember when I cut the tip off your finger with the little saw on my swiss army knife? I chopped it up and ate it and snorted the dust of your nail. We were brothers. I told you I knew a girl who looked like Robert Plant. A botanist.
Then I was shagging Edwina in Paris and composing a note to you in my head. We went to an orgy on Noah's Ark. Helga was there (remember her?). I mainly watched while drinking tea of opiate.
Hello Satan. Let me cook you breakfast. No no no, I insist.
But what I really want to say is: Fuck you. I hope you die. Your reign of terror will shrivel and expire with a pathetic little mouse-squeak.
And I, screaming and squawking, will be reborn as Nigel Tewkesbury, hatching, fully drunk and erect, from a celestial Cadbury's Creme Egg.
I am yours, in death, love, and intoxicants, and Oxford, remember Oxford, always remember Oxford.
Sincerely,
N. Tewkesbury
