JakobJakob is a Hungarian Swede. I think that's it. Or something like that. We used to play on the same soccer team, now he plays on a different soccer team and I nurse my gimpy ankle. He's married to an Italian lady and I think his sons must speak four languages. Or something like that.
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It's true. I am gone. I am here now, but I am gone. I was here for what seemed like a long time, (like you said) snorting, drinking and staring at the computer for eternities. When I am really gone, I will be living the life we all dream of but never do. I will be growing vegetables and building a shack that I can call a house. Something that won't win awards or be in Wallpaper, but may have some architectural snazziness. Something to grow vegetables outside and have sex inside. I will be fishing along the Mackenzie and going for long bike rides wearing padded shorts along the coast. Gone. And with the gone-ness comes the missing. I will be missing you, this filthy city, European friends and Art.
Gone
Gone
Beyond Gone
We are all Beyond Gone
Hooray!
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