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 Guillermo, it’s clear pain is not a stranger..  

   5th Ave is a magnificent rich beast of pain.  She has assembled tools, techniques, teams to keep the hydrophoby, the hounds of pain, at bay. 

   She is intensely rational.  She is Chairman-of-the-Board capable. I have felt her interrogate.  I have watched her inquire & infiltrate my niece — for all the right reasons.  Fuck Carly Fiorina, 5th Ave would have unfucked HP. 

   In addition to knowing non-trivial pain & loss, like you she knows wealth. Bloomberg’s junk mail gets confused with hers. She knows the hard work & glory of winning wealth for one’s self, and it’s showing, its offering, hat-in-hand , to ancestors who turn away. 

  With your Motorcycle Show stories of the CEO life, you understand precariety, the burden of leadership, the necessity of decision & resolve. You understand the day lighting of clarity; how that leads to vision that guides decision in sleep, in meditation, at espresso, on Day 5, motorcycle mile 555 of your voyage to your desert, to your wasteland, to her sea. 

   She and I dated troubledly for 2 months barely between this past Dec n Jan.  Despite intense promise n hopes, we both knew it was going to prove compromising, corrosive and at conflict with the selves and systems we’ve constructed as grownups do — regardless of needy, nasty, meddlesome inner-children and other therapist buddhist bullshit.

   She found appalling my note to her about a person such as you.  She feels passed off to a buddy.   I have not made it clear to her how shallow is the acquaintance you and I have had.   She knows, she underestimates, denies how deep was my care for her. 

    I myself am phasing through a grief over the mercy killing of a blinding flash of a love of some sort.  I have now entered the anger phase. I am creating danger — that I will toss once miseries, gone incendiaries, through her Central Park window. 

   Why the euthanasia?   In a prior existence, I carried 85-pounds of gear, radios & and incendiaries. My disks are shot.  5th Ave is a feather-wearing beast of burdens beyond me.   Back against the tree, my infantryman’s on-my-knees tortoise roll to the upright failed me. 

   As a civilian I fostered a feral dog. She stalked dogs at the dogpark, eye-fucked ’em like a snake.  She snapped at a doggy daycare faggot w shellac for hair.  She scratched the neighbor’s dog.  She got the law’s attention.  She got a howard county rapsheet.  We built a shotgun shack.  She was gonna get it in the neck.

I surrendered her.

    5th Ave told me how she grieved in her Mediterranean Sea.  Two years before her captain-at-the-mast had collapsed to his knees.  Whatever grieving she does for me will be a mere squall.  If ever there were a time to be an albatross.  Soon, perhaps sooner than my vanity would ever want to entertain, I’ll be 90% forgotten. 

   I hope she tacks her sloop to you. Should she, never ever use the phrase “for all the right reasons”, for all the right reasons. 

Gus