My mate Jesse died this morning at 2.15am. It just seems so weird reading back over that last sentence. Jesse is dead. I will never, ever see him again. It's a funny old thing death, it's like tipping over into a void... nothing! That's it, you can hold your breath until you are blue in the face and nothing will ever change.
It only seems like yesterday that he and I were dancing at the Peel K'd off our brains.
Jesse didn't die peacefully, he never gave into it, he never got tired and had that calm before the end, he fought it, screaming in pain, all the way. It was pretty awful for all concerned, from all accounts.
I probably haven't really mentioned this on here, as I haven't seen much of Jesse this year, but I have two friends with cancer, Tom, in his thirties and Jesse in his twenties. We used to call it cancer corner whenever Jesse and Tom got together.
Beautiful Jesse - I guess his physical attractiveness counts for little now, as beauty and ugly rot at the same pace in the dirt - so young, so lovely.
It's a bloody great shame, as Jesse was one of the good ones.
And yes, my friend, you really were the world's greatest dancer.
Tom turned on me like a banshee, calling me a cunt for not caring, for not giving him my time, for being a bad friend... I think a cancer death, in the family, so to speak, was too close to home for Tom.
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