Thursday July 27, 8:29pm —
GREYHOUND BUS TERMINAL TORONTO
Wouldn’t know it, I’m in a bus depot. Given that the last time I made this trip you were with me, I find myself rather lonely.
I have about five unsent letters for you, but I am going to skip them all. They are mostly unfinished and mostly just crappy little fragments. I so desperately wanted to capture, properly capture how wonderful it was to see you in New York at the end of May. After all this time you finally came down and honest it meant so much to me. And those sandwiches—Cubanos in Times Sq.! Perfection—but, you know I've had a hard time putting to words what was so easy to live. I’ll try again later and save those stories for when we compile and publish our grand correspondence... the Toronto-New York Letters: Extended Edition now with never before read material.
I hope you are well. It seems we are always missing each other. I’ve been away in America for these last years, and soon as I come back to Toronto you’re gone. How is Montreal, friend? Is it everything you hopped it would be?
This has been weighing heavy on me for a bit, so I’m just going to say it. When you suggested that I move with you to Montreal I regret not immediately saying yes. My heart sings for America, and I do believe that that is where I need to be—but damn it I should have gone with you. I have a great many regrets in my life. You’d think I’d be used to them. I'm not. Every new one stings a bit. And this one sure did. You know I’ve never had many friends in my life, and now for the first time I find that I have a handful of friends... problem is they’re countries apart. I’m at the point now where I need to make decisions. I am a different person with each of my friends, so who I choose to see and where I choose to live is a decision about who I want to be. I don’t like this. I don’t like big decisions…
Remember way back when we started this, and I was dreaming on writing the next Great America Novel? Ha! I was a fool—still am, but it’s different now. I never did write it, but in my backpack is a stack of pages. My first book. It’s a wonderful mess and still bloody with red pen, but by 5pm on August 1 it will be officially done and turned in and I will be finished school. Fuck man, time goes too fast.
These next few days are going to be a haze of writing. I am going to New Jersey to stay with my friend Tommy P. He’s also finishing a book, and so I expect this weekend will be a mad scramble of us laughing and crying together, screaming and writing and writing and yelling and being just the worst kinds of people—desperate and self-involved as we both sprint this final stretch! But when it’s done, when my bound manuscript is turned in and I’m really done I think I’ll be able to breathe for maybe the first time in two years. Then I plan on getting very drunk. It’s been a while since I’ve been good and drunk. (Actually, no I suppose it hasn’t been that long, I just remembered that night you were with me in New York and we had champagne with my old roommates and you sang and played at the piano until dawn… Still, though, good and drunk is the plan.) Then, later, I will figure out the rest of my life.
I will write again soon, very soon! Possibly before the end of the night, since I doubt I’ll be able to sleep on this all-too-familiar bus to America.
And I want to know about you and about Montreal!
I miss you friend, so much.
P.S. Fifty Letters. Shit.