Dear Quinn,

You saved me with mythology and I will always thank you epically for that. You vanished after I did and though I can find no trace, I have the image of a sweet, sweet face. You knew how to conquer my earliest rebellions and you served me decadent conceptual sweets. We were in synch; in tune with a wonderfully destructive moment. You must remember me. I miss living in the ghetto with you and the reward of uncovering wisdom with the innocence of a child’s hand. I think my memory of you is one of my most surreal—when you were in the room, my storm was serene and the filth of our surroundings no longer astounded us.

What do you do now? Are you still tough? You handled gold so well, even when it was called filth and rough. I still have the book and am glad you sent it, so long after the fact. I hope I can learn from your dedication. You had the mouth of a nun and the hair of a liberal. What you would say, you would say calmly and that really confused me. No one else spoke to me like you did. Thank-you, so much for that. Maybe, if you like, we can discuss Pegasus and the heroes, and the heroes inside of us all. You gave me my appetite.