Dear Mama,

I know that you’re worried about me. I know that what they’re saying is really horrible and that you should be ashamed of me. And, I guess, they’re kinda’ right. I did kill that man. I pulled a my trigger. I couldn’t not do it. It was either him or me; and it was me that did it.

Antonio knows everything, just ask him.

I’m writing this on some train-thing, kind of like the regular subway back home, but it’s above ground and not covered in graffiti tags and homeless people.

I’m not sure where I’m going. Right now I’m in Canada. I won’t tell you where, in case the cops intersect this, but I know I need to brush up on my French, oui? And, well, Mama, I’m sorry. I don’t want to make you cry! I’m not coming home soon. Not anytime tomorrow. So, just carry on. Carry on as if nothing really matters. Like I don’t really matter. Please, I can’t stand what this is probably doing ot you, so please just forget about me.

I’m not sure what I’m gonna do. Maybe get a job at a museum or art gallery like we always talked about. I can learn about the greats. Michelangelo. daVinci. Galileo. Maybe learn the Fandango and sing to Figaro.

Yes, I’m a poor boy. Yes, no one loves me. Except you, Mama. But I’ll be fine. For now, I know that when I die, I know Beelzebub will have a part of Hell set aside for me, but right now, I’m just gonna live life.

But, Dear God, Yahweh, Jehovah, Bismillah, will watch over me. I’ll try to do just as he wishes me to do, anyway the wind blows.

But, as if nothing really matters to me, I love you Mama.