You're the only person I've ever known who can talk about the anatomy of a mongoose as easily as you can talk about what you had for breakfast in the morning. I read a few pages of your journal once while you were in the bathroom at The Melody Cafe. I always thought you were writing poetry in it, when really you were jotting down compliments you gave to people and the names of songs they played on the radio that day. It made me laugh just like I do when you work on your documentary about men who look like Jesus and when you organize your coffee cups according to size and color. There's always a part of me that wonders if you interpret your dreams before you make any decisions during the day; always a part of me that refuses to believe you were born on the Earth just like those of us who only know how to eat, drink, and sleep. The lady who lives in the apartment below mine asked me once if I had an alien living next door to me. I told her yes, but I also told her about the novel you wrote consisting of only monosyllabic words and she was so fascinated that she bought it and the three other novels you published. I wrote you a letter the day before you left for Tanzania, but when I noticed I made six grammatical errors I ripped it up because I knew you'd scold me for it. So instead, I wrote you this story and I'll stick it in your mailbox. I know you'll get it when you come back because you'll be anxiously checking to see if your "Flags of the World" trading cards arrived while you were gone. And if the landlord evicts me by then, I'll know where to find you. Next to the warthog statue in Hillshire Park, every Sunday at 12:13 in the afternoon.