Dear Liz:
If you read this, you've died. Me too. We met once many years ago. I do not think I remember, and certainly if you saw me nor recognize me now. I though I could never forget your eyes.
The first time my editor told me about I got up and left the office without closing the door. But then, at night, alone with my typewriter, I thought that if I did I would do next. And that it does not. So I opened a bottle of scotch, I started typing and at the end, I cried.
Now have died back to put your movies on television, write books about your life, all glosses and you will cry. But I began to cry for long before them. Be happy in the afterlife, dear. Ah, memories Richard sends you and says he hopes to meet you soon. Damn drunk, how I hate him.
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