Dear
Mr.Gatsby
I’m sure you’ve heard by now. I’m
really sorry. I just don’t think they understand. They don’t understand what
it’s like, to live as someone else for 300 some odd pages. They don’t
understand what it’s like to love someone unconditionally for decades. They
don’t understand the true loneliness of having a house full of people, and
feeling truly alone. And I didn’t understand it either until you came along.
You know, it’s kind of funny. I’ve
never spoke a word to you. I’ve never had a real life interaction with you, and
barely know what your face looks like. But I feel like we’ve sat in the same
room for hours on end, and just talked. We’ve talked about cars and women and
war and life. I know you inside and out.
I guess the
house is leaving with you. I’ll miss it too. Its descriptions will live on in
my mind. Although I never got the chance to physically attend your parties, I
was in awe at their portrayals. The lights, the music, and the perfectly kept
gardens. It’s all going with you.
You will be
very much missed, Gatsby. Although you’re being replaced, insulation manuals
just aren’t as… colourful. You’ve taught me a lot. You may be disappearing, but
the impressions you made on me are everlasting. They cannot be taken away. They
are mine to keep. It’s all I’ll have left of you. And I guess it’ll have to do.
It’s been a pleasure knowing you, old chap.
Your Friend,
Eric Gordon
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