"whistlin...here in the dark with you..."

The best part of me, the sincere and true no bullshit part of me is lying in a bed tonight in UMC, resting comfortably with his sleep abnea machine, breathing in and out all banged up. His ticket to freedom, his little red rider crumpled in a yard somewhere, while poor Josh, his beleaguered nurse, keeps watch over him. Keeps watch while my veritable heart keeps beating. We last sat on my porch, swapping novels and cigarettes, this library of literature and human frailties, after lent enchiladas and semi's and modern agriculture. I have few and unintelligible words. At the most - can impart this-" You're born alone, you die alone. What you in between is your business..." Oh and "Don't let the bastards get you down." I love you Peter Archibald. Please make it through. You gotta meet Hawkeye.