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Richard tells the rest of that story better than I do. He loves to tell it, how I sent him that letter. He doesn't know how scared I was when I wrote it, how numb my fingers were. I felt the pulse of his work and wanted him to know I did, because I couldn't keep standing by his side in the dark. I just wanted him to hold me. Wanted us to not be alone. He was so alone. No callers, no visitors. Sometimes a party; not often. Just drinking. Killing himself. I wanted to protect him, and myself.

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