farewells raze handwriting is a form of time travel. mine has lived through enough alterations that you probably wouldn't recognize it now if you ran into it out in the wild. yours hasn't changed a bit in twenty-four years. "this is kind of goodbye," you write. the third and fourth words lanced with an uneven line to demonstrate how hope dies between the fingers. your long farewell is inked in amethyst on a postcard of a ghost whistling at the keep of a castle, and on stationery with mushroom and flower stickers in the margins. amanita muscaria. peony and cabbage rose. five numbered pages i can cradle in the palm of one hand. you tell me you appreciate my place in your past. as if i ever asked to exist in the present with you. i'm robbed of the right to respond and remind you that you were the one to pry open a heavy door we'd both welded shut. at least i still have a voice here. even if you won't hear a thing i say. 250130 what's it to you? who go blather from