On Friday i found out he was coming, to get some stuff that he left behind. When i finally realized it was a bad idea, he was already on the bus.

He was so sad to stay in another bed from me, and said he'd go out and sleep in his abandoned car out in the lot. He's trying to stop drinking, so he can't sleep. I made him stay in the bed, but didn't let him into mine.

The next morning i take him out, as i would for any penniless friend visiting, for breakfast (the same place i brought yossarian the week before, and Rocky Moonie the week before that). I discover that he hasn't eaten since Thursday. It all seems so symptomatic, eating himself from the inside. This disease is killing him, it's so much a part of him; it's eaten so much of his soul and his will, and now it's eating his body too.

I try to tell him that it does matter. His body is where he lives, and nothing will work if that does not. Do i still love him? he wants to know. Love is touching souls, i think. How could i not? But, the secret to a long life is knowing when it's time to go.

It was feeding on me too, i had become more and more weak and transparent, so now i know i have to hold myself apart. It is so hard not to reach out to him. I feed him instead.