Sonathan

SONATHAN composes a letter, as one does.

SONATHAN: Father…

Reconsiders this, but it’s fine. It’s fine.

It’s been nearly fifteen years since you left. Last month, I investigated the refrigerator myself. There was milk to spare. I’m starting to suspect you didn’t go to the store.

A depressingly pathetic, yet pathetically depressing beat. Then…

Repressfully yours… Sonathan.