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Stupidly Intimate Emails (#2)

Here’s a strange and somewhat shadowy transmission penned by my dear friend, and beloved midnight-hour acquaintance, Duke Gordon. I found it when visiting the hillside shithole apartment he, two years ago, in a fit of drunken paranoia, abandoned. On the top shelf of a dusty closet there was a shoe box with a calligraphic scrawl across a strip of camouflage duct tape: “Death Rattles…