Dear DJ,

Remember when Greg's ghost kept trying to throw his shit at us, but nothing ever connected, obviously, cause he's a goddamn ghost?

You'd just gotten back into Chicago. We hadn't seen each other for a year or two. My hair was shorter, with a part on the left side of my head, the hair on my right side slinking behind my right ear.

And there was Greg, his hair spiked up, the moon shining through his torso, his ghost hand up his ghost ass. He was standing on top of that viaduct, the one with the old rail road tracks, which we were about to walk under.

You looked one way, I looked the other—it had kinda been that way the whole night. Neither of us saying a thing. As we walked, the red, neon liquor sign of the bar we just left dominated my peripheral vision, making me feel ashamed. I have no idea why.

- MJ


Fwd: >