One day he was there at my door, it’d been nearly half a decade since I’d last seen him, and yet he walked in and sat on my couch as if it was all still part of his routine. To be honest I’d assumed he was dead by that point, the last postcard was nearly a year ago, and our old friends always speculated that his lack of common sense was probably going to put him in an early grave. He wasn’t dead, but he nearly looked it. New scars scratched across his arms, and his right leg carried a heavy limp. Around his neck where a pair of headphones that seemed to be held together by a combination of tape and willpower, I don’t think they were plugged in to anything.