You don't have to believe me, but this is a true story. No shit. Some of my friends who are left over, told me to get it out of my head before it killed me before whatever and a kid that's no older than twelve or thirteen, put it on his old laptop and did editing. But the most important part is that I think I'm supposed to. At least that's what Bobby is telling me in my sleep or during REM time. See, I keep notes and even if I don't know what they mean, I can use this stuff to fill you in. And that's what this is; me filling in the blanks. Bobby left a shit load of notes and writing like he was going to write a book or something, so this is me putting that stuff together for you and filling in the blanks which are plentiful. Plentiful wasn't my word but the nerds word so if you see something weird like plentiful, just think that the kid must have done it. I'm sitting here in ye old farmhouse that we bought for a song, with new clothes and hair up, acting as if I got any education that I can do this but like I say, the kid in the next farmhouse....So, its like a serial, not cereal, and it'll take time to get out but I promise it's a wing dinger! No, not a fake fit like Bobby used to do in front of the quack doctor for more drugs.

  So, before I get going, I want to you to get a sense of the Bobby I knew before our brief life together took a turn into the twilight zone. But even before that I want you to understand how this works. First, this is the only way I can deal with his absence (I put in goneness) and me writing this is like one of the chickens learning how to talk to tell me they prefer such and such feed. I put in around four hours every day in the little garden by the shit house (he put in outhouse) but I get a food delivery every week by drone drop, something I didn't order, one of too many mysteries that I presently count. Every night, the nerd kid comes over, takes the stuff I've written, edits and puts it in my mailbox before I get up. I drink coffee from the drop, work out with Bobbys weights for an hour, have breakfast like a nutrient shake that comes with the drop and then force myself to read something to get a feel for writing. When I hear the bike horn, I go out with the kid and garden. He helps because we share the stuff. But like me, he also gets a drop by anonymous. He lives with his younger sister and a dog named Grizzly. Both parents passed with the last round of bird flu.

  After that, I clean up and sit in my favorite chair with a view of the woods in the back, the box of Bobbys written stuff on what I'm about to tell you and one bud from a large bag of same he left behind with his soapstone pipe, another reason as in DUH, if he was okay, he would never have left those two things behind. First, I read what the kid wrote and change things with notes and put it back into the mailbox with the new entry. Sometimes it comes easy, sometimes not but by dusk, I've got something that can be improved on later. I never get visitors or mail so at night I watch the world go to hell in a handbasket on the one station that comes in bad. And for any future people if they find this, it 2036, I think.

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