Dear Lou,

I wish you were here enjoying this fine weather. Last night, Ralph and I dined on a fine meal of offal and grease at a place across the parking lot from the motel. The sun is feeble now, it being late December. At least it is warm down here. Everybody has a vaguely reptilian cast, and sometimes not so vague at that. My doctor’s touch feels cold-blooded, and his skin is quite scaly. He attributes it to eczema. But what about his forked tongue? And there’s something about the way the fluorescent streetlights cast a glow on the palm trees on Lincoln Road that feels threatening. The conversation among the retirees centers on which early-bird special is the best. What a loathsome way to eke out one’s final years! Stumbling around in white shoes, spittle about one’s drooping mouth, blue-haired, one foot in the nursing home….

Truly, Jim