Dear Mun . . .

Where have I been? My god, where else could a respectable Grantaire be? Drinking my brains into silence, numbing my soul into what now passes for peace (such as my soul stands; I fear my soul has ever been a sad, slight specimen). I cannot fathom what possessed you to prod at me, or why you thought you ought to drag me back to consciousness, but here I unsteadily stand, and I’m happy to report that you have effectively shattered my stillness. All good things come to an end, n’est-ce pas?

But of course. The reason for my presence in this vast and drifting place. The reason for my absence in a world that—dare I say—had shown signs of progress for this so-called life of mine. It was a strange city, true, but there are joys in being known, in recognition where recognition had never truly been expected…

As they say, that has passed, now. All passes, though nothing ends. And I am here, while somewhere, that world carries on. I hardly know what to make of it. It aches of disappointment, but then, when is this life of ours removed from colossal frustration? I should expect nothing more, and I should have expected as much as soon as you began.

Still. I ought not to have left him there.

I can scarcely stomach the thought of it, am forced over and again to turn my eyes and mind away. Did you know, I considered bidding adieu to the bottle? Well. The dreams we have, and the foolish ideas that are now in the past. Were I not in the thrall of wine at this very moment, I could scarce speak on the matter. And until you took it upon yourself to shake me into wakefulness, it was the comparative silence of half-consciousness that had kept me in continuation.

( I tell you true, of late I have lost my words. )