I'm back in Arizona.  I'm not happy about it.  I'm glad to have my cats and my roommate and my beauty products back, and to have more than four dresses to wear.  But like the good doctor says, Phoenix is hell.  It's a dead place; you go out and you don't expect to run into something living.  You expect to get into a gigantic metal machine on wheels and to drive to another concrete lifeless place unpopulated by humanity but merely dead-faced social zombies you regard with the same warmth as potted plants.  They are there, but they keep to themselves.  And there's no forests for me here, either... no life here at all...

That isn't nearly the amount of pain I feel for having lost you.  I guess, I mean, I know things weren't going too well, and would never be the same as they were when we were happy.  But how painful is it that I watched Casablanca at last, because that was your favorite movie, and now you're gone and I can't tell you about it... and I wanted to watch it so badly because of you.  And I am happy for you... I am happy that you did something for yourself, maybe you'll move on and be happy and healthy at last... but I wish it didn't have to be like this.  I wish it didn't have to mean that someone I once loved and placed the utmost trust and adoration into can no longer even coexist with me.  I wish that it had never come to all this, and even if it did... I wish you hadn't been so broken.  I hurt.  I ache.  I lost someone I regarded as a brother, and that's the highest accolade I can give, and now it's truly completely closed.  It was closed, I think, a long time ago... in my heart I withdrew, but now the guillotine has dropped and there can be no pardons.  That's how it feels, anyway.  

I never managed to try any Maple Candy.  
I apologize for who I'll never be.