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Thursday, June 17th, 2010

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K 17: Dear Jason
Dear Jason,

I was always told to start letters by showing you’re thinking of the person before mentioning anything about yourself or anything else. Just a simple, ‘I hope you’re doing well,’ suffices, even if you really couldn’t care less or you’re only writing because you need something, or out of a sense of obligation.

That said, this is a terrible opener, but I promised myself that before I destroyed this entry, I’d write without censuring myself and without erasing.

Dear Jason,

I hope that wherever you are

Dear Jason,

I forgot to remind you to beg for God’s forgiveness in your heart. I guess I thought you might stay with me for a minute and I could hold you and talk it over with you, talk you through the transition to the other side. But instead I put everything behind the blade and cut you in half. And for that I’m sorry. Sometimes I overdo things.

Here I am talking about me again.

Dear Jason,

I’m writing to tell you that you were strong. Just for a moment. I lied, to make it easy for you, and I offered you a Kiss, and you saw through it, and you refused the euphoria. You chose life, life at all costs. It was brave, going for your lighter. I was almost sorry to see you hesitate. Foiled by the vinculum again.

Self-preservation is a terrible thing to waste. Like Emily, seeing the stake and saying, “I forgive you.” Or you, with your thumb on the flint wheel, freezing up just long enough for me to call on a miracle of Thebes and complete an arc with my arm.

What’s that movie? Two men enter, one man leaves.

To be fair, there was only one possible outcome, lighter or no lighter, hesitation or not. I’ve been on fire before and it didn’t slow me down nor turn my blade. If you’re in hell, let one of your thousand torments be relaxed, knowing that you weren’t really close to escaping, not close at all. That leaves nine-hundred and ninety-nine torments, I guess.

I lost my train of thought.

Dear Jason,

This is kind of a stupid idea. What am I supposed to write? Hi, Jason. How’s it going in hell? Wish you were here. Sorry I jammed a 357 Magnum between your eyes and asked you whether you believe in Jesus, but considering you had the gall to answer No, maybe you deserved what you got?

I didn’t expect this letter to be so mean-spirited.

Dear Jason,

I hope you found the light, and that in the moment of your death

Dear Jason,

I hope you found the light

Dear Jason,

I hope that you

Dear Jason,

Why couldn’t you just soldier through it? Why did you give up, like everyone else? Why does every son of a bitch try to run away when things get complicated? Carcosa is a giant hourglass leaking the hopeless and the down-trodden and most of the all the impatient, the rash. Carcosa is an eternally sinking ship, with the rats pouring out and drowning, great floating mats of drowned vermin, an ocean of drowned rats with familiar faces, the faces of Ethan, Vanessa.


Didn’t see that one coming.

You beautiful woman. Such a snob, yapping at me about what Daeva are and what love is and isn’t, as if I didn’t know, as if I wasn’t Josephine’s childe, as if you hadn’t already given me the same speech the last time we snuck off somewhere to play. You wanted to play rich girl and take a dozen lovers and you choked on your own debt, your own web, and abandoned ship like everyone else, and joined the sea of rat corpses. Just like Ethan, whom you thought was beneath you.

At least he’s still alive.

Somewhere back there this was supposed to be a posthumous letter to Jason.

Dear Jason,

Truth is, I don’t really care.

I was not cruel. You got the same chance anyone else gets. You got one life. You lived it, you died it. In between you had a simple choice.

Hope you made it. Hope it was the right one.

Your former Domitor,


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