Three Months in One Letter
I’ll never see you again, though. The creamy clouds hang over the mountains and I wonder if you are there. Far away from here. From Eddie the bird and Chow the cat and the ranch-style house in a neighborhood not far at all from mine.
By morning, he had decided he needed somewhere nobody cared about theater, someplace where the name Chekhov was more likely to be mistaken for a rifle than a playwright.