Chapter 3
Five months, one week ago
Dear Helena,
This is weird.
Is this weird?
This is probably weird.
I mean, you’re dead. And I’m here, writing you a
letter. When I’m not even sure I believe in the
afterlife. Truth be told, I stopped pondering
eschatological matters in high school because they got
me anxious and made me break out in hives under my
left armpit (never the right; what’s up with that?). And
it’s not like I’m ever going to figure out a mystery that
eluded great thinkers like Foucault or Derrida or that
unspellable German dude with bushy sideburns and
syphilis.

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