For Alex

This slick young queer, this beautiful boy...
I give this picture to you, a picture i'm sure you've seen. Because he stopped writing before 21. You are 21 and just starting. I ashed in my beer a minute ago, and just had to swish it around and keep going. Sometimes you must swallow the ash, it's clean at least.

I want to ask you for something, and it's a big request, it's something intense and serious...it might even be impossible. But I will ask, you can give any answer, I will accept whatever it may be. Continue diligently, keep going even when you feel empty, continue to write.


A boy came into a room where he found something very surprising. In the center of the room on it's familiar circle rug, he saw a small grey pouch. He approached it slowly, not knowing how it got there. He looked up at the clouded covering over the bulb and knew it hadn't fallen. He wondered if his father had put it there, but was confused at why his father would leave it on the rug and not on the bedside table. He approached it. He lowered onto the balls of his feet, then onto his knees, and put his hands on them. He felt a sense of anxiety, though he knew not the words to describe it. Was this a test? Was someone watching him? He decided with tense muscles to pick up the pouch. It was soft to the touch, a drawstring pulled tight at it's mouth. He lifted it, it wasn't heavy, but felt valuable, it's contents clicking as he lifted it. He opened it slowly with two fingers inside it's mouth. He put one hand on it's back end and gently poured the contents onto the rug. From it fell the most beautiful glass balls. His eyes grew wide as he looked at their myriad colors, how they shone in the light. Eight small and one large ball. He wanted to shout with joy, but could only smile. For his birthday he had recieved those coveted things, his father's marbles.