(For You, Wherever You Are)

Dear Octopus,


I worry sometimes about the selfish self-indulgence of these your letters; geared as they are to the garish, impudent machinations of this idealistic mind, lost in the ocean, and drunk on the transient myth of its own importance. They are stupid, really. I know.


Being stupid isn't great, clearly, but what's worse is knowing that your whole life is just unfolding in some not-too-distant corner of this our eternal city, where I cannot see, and all I know of its tribulations is what I might hear from the others. I never seem to ask how you are; inquire after your sister or parents, nor your job, flat, bills or prospects. It is a callow man who cares only for himself. I am not so Octopus. At least not yet. In truth, I do not ask only because I know you cannot reply. You are gone: sold to some vile potentate controlling with relish his grim corner of the violet deep, to cultures and climes in which I cannot know you, only to dream of what might have transpired had not the righteous truth finally demanded payment for the debt to which it was long owed.


So for you, wherever you are: you are my best friend, and all that is good in what is left. The longer I live in this city the more I see that love is dead; so just know that I miss you, and think of you always.


Tomorrow I go home for the last time. Be with me, Octopus. Lord knows I need you now.


Your loving friend,


Action Squid