Justin's feet paced the pavements, walking back and forth and back and forth and back and forth across dark parking lots. I stood by my car and watched him with a tear on my cheek and a bottle in my hand. He was debating whether or not to come see you, Pamela, just for moments. Debating whether or not to go destroy himself or to sink slowly into the black. He's still caught between the eyes and the ribs and the hairs on your arms... and he has nowhere else to walk. You don't seem to understand that all he ever wanted was to die in your arms, old and someone solid. Under warm covers, in your arms. Under warm eyelids, in your arms.

Justin would have died for you, Pamela, if you hadn�t died first.