Thanks again for the invite to your office Christmas party. Enjoyed meeting your assortment of solitudes, the whiskey, the slant trajectory between sorrow and a point unknown. Found it awkward to be the only actual guest, chewed noisily on ice cubes and made small talk with the venetian blinds whenever you wandered off to paw at a question. You may have seen me leave early. You may have seen me lingering across the street, hunting your women, haunting the empty bottles in front of the bars, granting wishes. Who wishes for riches? Who wishes for fame? Who wishes for a breathing apparatus when they dive deep into fiction, a straw, a reed, a metal tube that spits fire? Will tell all the guys back home about your excellence as a host and aptitude for catastrophe. I look forward already to next year.