As far as I know, people don’t mention this often;
I guess decorum overrides the need to go into detail about the less beautiful or noble parts of a newly dead man’s life.

But, since I helped sift through all of his stuff, I thought I owed it to him to see everything through to its sad end.
I thought it was fitting to get every last glimpse at the inner life of a friend who chose to end a cycle of misery.

That glimpse included not only secret dreams and open nightmares and daily struggles and a codependency on art, but also a peek at “baser” impulses.

That’s how I found myself rummaging through a box of his porn at 8:30am on a weekday in June, six years ago now.

I am so sorry, brother. I couldn’t save you. I wanted to, but I couldn’t. Your life was not mine to save.

Yet, I’ll be goddamned if I won’t keep blaming myself.

-Jay St. Orts