Dearest Colo. Hamilton,

For the third consecutive year, I am writing you a letter you cannot read on your birthday. In the time since my last letter to you, not one I published, but instead one I wrote you privately on the anniversary of your duel at Weehawken, many things have changed.

I lost my way, sir. I became bent on my own self-destruction and hurting as many people I could. The bill came due, however, and I am still paying for it. I will not get into the specifics of this, as this letter will be a matter of public record and one of my resolutions was to play my pain closer to my chest, but do know that, if it were not for several life changing events happening to me in the late months of 2018, I may not be here to write this letter.

I often feel like I sound like some repetitive song. The specter of suicide haunted my every day and death punctuated my every sentence. If I may quote a film you cannot possibly know. “Things were bad. They were worse than bad, they were crazy.”

Nevertheless, I survived. I learned. And now I am here, writing to you. Truthfully, I do not know what drives me to persist. What fuels me to write. I do not know. Perhaps I should search for it, or maybe I should let it be.

I can hear music again, Colo. Hamilton.

I hope you are at rest. Thank you for everything.

Your obedient servant,

J. Fiene