You, little brother. Blood of my blood, skin of my scars and thought of my brain: you're now in the back of my head, like a constant cabinet full of stuff. That is what's left when people are gone: their magnetic ausence on the corner of our eyes.
You enjoyed my music, didn't you? It was particularly tender when you asked me to put something on, as soon as I got home from work: I was always pleased. Our future as the cooks in the house, so bright! Even cleaning along with your cynical complaints was nice. You were the only person in the family to whom I could talk freely, and that was the least we would accept from each other.
So wildly loose you were. Left to your own fate, thrown against the walls of the world. But wild freedom, mon petit, is a tricky path: if you seek it too much, you get stuck either in insanity or inside the very rules you despised. I told you, I told you....
And you're stuck. I barely know where you are, the conditions are not clear: we just know you're suffering with bad food (if you have any), mistreating and overcrowding (and if you, who enjoy space so much, have a square meter to sleep, maybe it's good).
Our father is worried. Our brother is worried.
I cry every night. Doesn't help, but I can't help it.
I just hope you're not dragged down to the sour path
these men with you are in. And I hope there's some sunlight for you
everyday: the sunny days have been beautiful, but not enought without
you in them, and that way we could share them.