(Russell's handwriting was pretty sloppy. There were some words I just couldn't make out...)
Tuesday night (late).
Dear James,
I want to talk. So I'm writing tonight to express - to try to figure out (how shall we say) life. It seems I've spent so much of my life trying to analyze what it is to be alive. What is it? What is it? Is it a series of getting ups and lying downs? Is it the processing of so much food into shit? Or so much life into shit? God, I'm torn between wanting to live forever and being done with it now! You see, there is a passion of wanting - to taste of life - to see what happens - to understand - to grow. But the path is so wearisome. You can't know it all - no one can. My eyes pass across so many things; what went into all of them? I wanted to write - what an incredible being this human animal is. But that's only flattery. How could we be incredible to anyone but ourselves? Vanity thy name is human.
None of us are unique! None of us are special! We are so alike that any ____ differences are ____.
So what if Russell B.
Lic. no. 53....
S.S. no. 241....
Phone no. 92....
Birth cert. no. 218....
Death cert. no. 66....
does something - anything. God, to be relegated to mediocrity. You know, to some degree, humans fail at everything!
(Ended, I guess, that Tuesday night.)
Early Nov.
God, that's pretty good shit up there! Tonight's writing will probably not fare as well. I just talked to you on the phone and I'm going to enclose some of the cartoons I can find. (Far Side, Calvin and Hobbes.)
Was interrupted by phone call from the wicked bitch of the "Hill." I am quite angry right now. Must close.
Please enjoy the comics.
Your 17 year friend,
Russ
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