Goddamned if someone's trying not to keep me alive. Now, maybe once or twice a week in the morning there's a little sack with food in it. Bread & apple & sometimes a vitamin. I don't mind telling you, the first time I saw what was in that bag, I might have cried. Who's leaving these sacks, they're leaving them and they don't know me, not at all. They're just leaving it for whoever is under this pile of clothes.

I'm picking things up real quick, now. I used to try to get somewhere out of the way, under some bushes or behind a fence if I could, but it's like the tyranny of the asshole out here. Everything they do has a cost but they don't know or care—they're not the ones that pay it. So I learned, now, to stay out right were people can see me.

I don't want to say anything to you I can't promise, so I can't say anything about coming back. Can't say anything about not coming back, either. You're a smart girl. Here's me winking.


Letters from Underground