And this is just the 50th letter I’ve written you, Stanley, from where I am. They condemn me to it, this bittersweet punishment of always speaking to someone just out of range. You will never get this letter, just as you will never receive the next 700 that I am to write, nor the ones after that or before this, but my mind will never stop aching for you to hear my story, all of my stories, the stories that I never told you. I’m sorry, Stanley, and the guilt will most likely consume me for the rest of my time on earth, until, finally, they take me as well. I hope, Stanley, that when they say eternal pain they don’t mean it, and that regret cannot outlast infinity.