Dear Friend,
By the time you start reading this, I will already be dead. Please do not gasp or cry or blame yourself. There was nothing you could have done and I am free now. Our Mother, the Great All-Knowing, has prepared us for this moment - our Big Release. Our great sacrifice.
Our bodies, we are taught, are without meaning. This is why Mother lets us decorate them as we wish, plucking out that which offends us, discarding deadweight. There was much I shed happily but my hands remain part of me. Many chose to do without but I love writing too much. Before Mother found me, I wrote songs. Sad songs. Too sad, they said. But now I must communicate the joy we feel here as we, Mother's loyal followers, prepare to cross beyond into new, mysterious dimensions.
Around me, my friends crawl on their bellies, wriggling with joy, speaking in tongues; beautiful torsoes that have shed ugly limbs and are ready to transcend. They remind me of little bugs and grubs, gleeful grins, carefree souls. Mother feeds us, she cleans us and she loves us but the years of her caring are approaching their end. We are ready to leave the cocoon.
Mother has let loose the spores that will destroy the body as efficiently as possible, freeing the soul. "The joy is contagious," she tells us, coughing up blood, and I see my crawling friends already exhibiting the first signs of the Release too. Their skin blisters, their mouths foam as their spirit escapes, they cry out, writhing in ecstacy as the spores spread.
My own body is shaking, my hands are cracking, pus leaks from my fingers across the page and I must write no more. It is time. I will place this letter in my shirt pocket for you.
By the time you start reading this, the virus will have claimed my body. I will be, by your definition, dead.
By the time you finish reading this, you will be dead too but I hope my words bring comfort. Fly free, beautiful butterfly.
I did it for love,