The Welsh Magician. An old friend and flame of mine stopped calling one day. Something was wrong and I assumed it was him. I shut the door, tightly, bolted it at the top, the middle and the bottom, and sneered at it whenever I saw it.

I found out today what The Reason was. She had cancer. He couldn't have me around for this. I knew there was something wrong, but I thought the tumor was between us, not inside her. I met him on the street a year ago, and I gave an icy, Oscar-winning performance. Afterwards I went home and awarded myself a statuette of gold, thanking God and all the irony in the world as my inspiration.

I found out today that she died three weeks ago.
"What?!"
She had cancer.
"..."
Everyone was so afraid to talk about him around me, everyone assumed someone had told me years ago. Not Manon, not Mike, not Dana, no one breathed a word. But now she breathes no more, and now I know.

I wrote him a message this morning. I saw his eyes in my head, I heard echoes of his sobs over the phone years ago, and grimly set about my task.

When I was done, I went to my desk and awarded myself a piece of grey cardboard. Given my own mother's plight, today I deserve nothing more and nothing less. Today, scavengers of my own desperation, regret and pain will circle around me and peck at the paper until it is pulp.