Dear Owen,

Pretension never clothed itself in more mysterious a garb. I remember making art with you into the small hours, and listening to the moans of third-rate porn. How could we have gone from high art to glossy debauch? Each movement is a vignette in our friendship and I at once want to indoctrinate you into my movement. Thank-you, you, for being my therapist and obliging my hours of speculation; like a judge, you head my investigations. When will you reveal more of yourself? You cannot be too simple, or else the muses would ignore you, which I know they opt not to do.

You need more experience and I have always wanted to teach you how to fuck, like my Queen once said. I remember how your hair hid your humble clothes and I remember how you spotted me the money to pay for my pills. What can I pay you to assist in cracking that tough shell she has put around and on top of you? You need freedom. I am sorry I could not be your roommate. You know how my illness plagues me. I hear your music when I think of the next generation and I try to channel the power to inspire you to make more soon. What stops you from confessing to me? What are you running from? I fell into you.