Mike called once a week, and then he called once a month. He called once every few years, which turned into never at all. Missing an artist for the loss of their art isn’t grief. We’re heartbroken for Robin and hate what he did, but real, true, and private loss is so hard to express. I miss going with Stephen to bars that serve chicken, working with Caleb, getting drunk on the clock, and to all the junkies: can you remember me anymore? Can you remember me at all? In October, I saw how he crashed head-on with beer for blood and no seatbelt. We kept the notebooks he left under his bed. We collected newspaper and met every Tuesday night. Gave Brian the sweaters, and Stephanie got the bike. He called once every few years, which turned into never hearing from him again. To all the junkies: can you remember me anymore?