This is Stephanie.

Eddie always had about the technological know-how of a six year old. So I guess I could have posted here any time, since I set the whole thing up. But that’s so invasive, you know? But it’s late and I feel so bad for him. It’s not a No Eddie Club. It’s…just me, and Wren, and Jack, and it’s all fucked up and scary.

When I sleep now I dream about a woman with a frog’s head and three other people in a little shop. We put our feet in ink. We hold hands. And that’s all. We go out into a city with a funny name, and in that city there are spiders with gears on their bellies, and rivers of cream, and old men with zebra legs limping down the street. Jack says it’s not a dream. Jack says a lot of things.

He says there was a war there. Over people like us. Immigrants.

And all I had to do was fuck Wren to get there. Easiest customs process of my life. My mother used to say that people are like other countries–you can visit, you can learn the language, but you can never really be a local. I guess that’s literally true.

There’s this book I love, and the author had a weird life, she disappeared and everything. It’s so bizarre, but I think this is where she went, to this city. To that war.

Eddie, when you wake up and read this: you have always been in my club. I’ll be by around 4 with Wren and some awesome pictures of a chick in New Mexico with a chupacabra on her ass we can point and laugh at. You’ll be better soon, and then…well, sometimes customs takes awhile.

We’ll bring take-out. Maybe pho.

P.S. Jack made you a present.

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