David Foster Wallace, please. Please don't hang yourself. If it isn't proof enough that, um, things are happening, that life is going along and the thoughts and words that I love are not tied to a man that can feel that love, well, you committed suicide. Just last night I was telling a stoop full of drinking women about Infinite Jest, about Don's speech in front of the Crocodiles, perhaps my favorite story ever told.

Well. Well. I choose to believe that love means something, dead or alive, and so, having not met you while you were alive, I would like to say: your books made true things clearer, and funnier, and more poignaint, and therefore: more true, in my humble opinion. Thank you. I am sorry for your mind-shattering pain.