Dear Wigleaf,

Come to me. Hold my hand. I am on my deathbed, and this breath counts among my last. I have lived a full life, but, like so many thoughtful people who grew busy and distracted along the way, I feel regrets. As I inhale, they cut me deeply. So listen. I confess I should have devoted more hours to scouring Youtube for obscure music videos from the 1980's. I did not refresh my email inbox as frequently as I could have. I read far too little breaking news of movies in pre-production, of politicians' sordid loves and hypocrisies, and of the gruesome murders of children. And, if I am honest, I occasionally withheld updates to my Facebook status. I never opened more than eight browser tabs at once. I never found the perfect porn. My laptop trembles now upon my bloated belly, and beyond it I will never see my lap again. The hour is late. My passwords grow hazy. Please, I beg of you: come here. Type for me. Click that link. And adjust my browser's default font size one more time. Also, Wigleaf, I am thirsty. Bring ice chips. Bring champagne.

Yours still and yours forever,

Eric






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Read EB's story, "Mallard."

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