I think of you every day, man.
I'm sorry for what happened...
One of your last questions to me was asking how best to prepare Suboxone for intravenous injection, and I told you that you were missing the point of them.
The paintings of hands were odd, reaching for something outside of the scene.
At the time we became friends, I didn't wonder why you considered my significant benzodiazepine tolerance particularly endearing, but we were younger then.
Full of life, with our futures ahead of us and so many tomorrows saved up to enjoy.
You gave a lot of advice, and yet you ended up succumbing to the same problem so many others do.
Why would you do that, man?
I felt incredibly angry when you died because it could've been prevented, and I also thought that it wasn't unlikely, either.
If I could've done something, I would've, or rather, should've been able to save you.
People die all of the time but your death in particular had a profound effect upon me.
But, I try to make sure to think of you every day, and hopefully I'll eventually be proven wrong and we'll meet up in the other world, as gods or demigods, amidst the ever-turning cosmic wheel of saṃsāra.