This is not a eulogy but think of this as one. I just want to remind myself about how you taught me about the things I didn't know; about what should I do in my life and what should I don't. I just wanted to thank you for being kind between those pages of your book; for having some time to talk with me when I was feeling alone. I knew that you were just there, sitting beside me, drinking beer and kissing that last roll of cigarette. I know how cruel the world was to you when you were still kicking; I know how you put your heart out to that old typewriter every night, I know you spent most of your night, and your life, being alone in your room. I also know how you turned your pain into poetry, your agony into words that had never truly lived, about how you sought for peace, and asked for a little less of pain.
I also know how you tried to fight with yourself just to be a writer; a writer that writes out of nothing, because you were full of nothingness and you write from within －a writer on a whim, a writer underneath the moon, a writer that hated the room bathed in light, a writer that writes when something happens, a writer that writes to make something happen. I know how you write from a wound which you never wanted to heal; a writer that used to drink with a demon, with himself, with nothing but nothing.
You taught me about the things I didn't know I should learn from; about how to tell the world that "Go, fuck yourself. I don't care."
You taught me to be patient, to be sadistic and masochist, to be numb in love, to fall in love with loveless love, to commit suicide, to agonize, and drink alone without feeling lonely.
I can tell myself that I am a young and dumb version of you, but I knew that you would just tell me that: "Your life is your life." But, at some point, that's how I want to live my life; to walk the path you went through, to live the life which you had and never had, to be a burden and pain in the ass, to be the person with beard and freckles, to agonize with peace －because I felt freedom in you, you made me feel that loneliness and freedom have no boundaries; that both of them can still be called free-will, that those two are just a page between two covers, that committing suicide is not for the coward.
For Henry and his goldfish, for his decades that had been spent well, for his book that took too long to recognize, for the post-office he once spent his life with, for his typewriter, for every corner of his room, for nothing－this is a bottle of beer in my right hand and my last roll of cigarette in my left hand, cheers!
Indeed. It takes endurance to live, Charles. Belated Happy 100th birthday!