Dear John Hodgen

You don’t remember me, or if you do, the person you remember from Bancroft’s writer’s conference isn’t the same person I am today. I wanted to thank you. In ways I can’t really comprehend or articulate, your voice has echoed through my life. I find my inner monologue is often a pastiche on your work. I see Chicago storm clouds and think that the worlds on fire. The streets flood, hail ricochets off my window and the news tell me that the tornadoes are coming. My brain is broken in two, dual reflective, bipolar. I escaped from suicide, Maybe escaped is too strong a word. I think I’m flying away, roaring into the atmosphere, approaching escape velocity. If light can’t escape a black hole, then how can anyone really slip out of depression, the black hole of the soul. Soul. Fuck. End of mesage

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