There had always been the dream of collaboration. As she lay dying, she had to write a letter. Her friend suggested they do it together; the letter would be better that way; their collaboration would result in a third person who would write the best kind of letter. She looked at him, quizzically, and then submitted to the experience. The letter was better. That was his dream, always, to make this third person with someone, someone who was better than either individual. Sometimes this happened for years, and then not. Sometimes, looking at programs about David Bowie, and the years he spent touring with Iggy Pop, or living with him in Berlin, making music, he would remember that feeling–of creating the third person who wrote better than either individual. He would close his eyes against the break up part of the memory because he wanted to see that third person, always, as whole and pure. Before the flowers of friendship faded friendship faded.
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