Dear Maestro,

it took me so long to write another letter. I'm sure you didn't get bored. We're all dying every moment, now that I write, now that you read. Death is not a dark room we have to step in, a fixed place we're moving towards to. Death is now, it's happening. I had realized it long time ago, but forgot about it, then read about it, then forgot it again, today I read about it again. I have a tattoo about it but no, I keep on forgetting about it. It pisses me off that you think you'll die in a couple of years. Did you stop living because of that? You? Picking oranges in Israel or was it in Greece, hitchhiking across Australia, living in a bus in a field in Devon, slapping that lady at the party in Sydney, and how about all those German girls in Cork? If you talk about the media, I won't listen. I'm not interested. They can't be trusted. I can't control them. I'm writing and I'm dying, I have no time to spend on stuff I can't control. Do I feel like telling you to stop consuming all those addictive news and start writing about your amazing life, the amazing people you met, the places, the fights, the laughs, Farakataska-Farak! All those ladies, their voices, and again their laughs, their screaming, their craziness, your craziness, and then the drinking on the beach, the stupor while driving back home in a summer night, the sunny mornings? Yes, I feel like doing it and I just did it indeed but I shouldn't have. You will tell me why it was wrong for me to do it, who the fuck do I think I am, telling you what to do? How do I know better? I don't. It's just my take on things, Maestro. I'm terribly sorry if I offended you. That's what I'd like to do myself. But I'm writing, and I'm dying, every second, and I'm almost scared, and I'm pissed off because instead of being in a bar getting wasted, or walking downtown with Cat between us, we are just sitting by the river bank, and looking, and -

and what if that was exactly the point?

Love. 

PS - Master, serene are all the hours

Master, serene are
All the hours
That we lose,
If we lose them,
We place flowers
Like in a jar.

In our life,
There are no sorrows
Nor are there joys
So let us learn,
Incautiously wise,
Not to live life.

[...]

Fernando Pessoa as Ricardo Reis
December 6, 1914