Conversations about conversations. For you? To you? Either would seem, at best, unlikely. For me? Of course yes, though, to one or two others as well, I hope. And you deserve some thoughts, though this doesn’t say much. Thoughts and words (thoughts and prayers, the last, the first refuge of the morally evasive), public thoughts. More selfishness. Ritual is its own reward, flowers on a grave, songs on an anniversary, the re-reads, when we dare. This makes me miss you, that’s what’s left, moments put off, memories dodged, perhaps saved, and then the usual sense of you is concentrated. Like a drink, like liquor, can we do that? Into the cold, into that imagined outside. Drink to me, drink to my health, you know I can’t drink anymore. I miss you, my friend, that's it really.