Ethan Hawke letter 35, 073024
Letter 073024 I don’t think my brothers
Dear Ethan Hawke
God moves my brain but not before it turns the bread in my stomach black. I call it sleep, but it’s not sleep. My wife is tired and my cousins are sad. The lossless, also, grieve. I call it the present. I tell my sons that all slasher movies are about homesickness. They find a sweetspot in the volume. A ghost hears an angel. I underwater tell my daughter there is hope. Men and lonely men make the same loneliness twice. The science is silent.
kingsoftrain 
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