Iâ€™m sorry you’re dead. Iâ€™m going to miss you, you, one of the few actors who really got self-destruction. You always made me believe in the bad in the good and the good in the bad. You always creeped me out.
Mr. Hoffman, if youâ€™re up there in ODerâ€™s heaven, keep an eye out for my dad. Heâ€™s funny and youâ€™ll like him. Heâ€™s a youngish-looking fifty-something with white hair and a jaunty fedora. He died seeking that alternate plane of existence that I know you knew so well. He chose the tantalizing promises of a sly loverâ€”alcoholâ€”over the greedy gropings of his little daughter. He died alone, like you.
Mr. Hoffman, I know your secret. Everyone else thinks that you died on your bathroom floor atop a scattered mess of needles and baggies, but I know the truth. No, you died in an elusive, exquisite, and delightful paradise. You died happy.
Mr. Hoffman, I feel like we know each other. May I call you Phil? Phil, this isnâ€™t easy to ask. Phil, if youâ€™re wandering around ODerâ€™s heaven and you bump into a dark and curly-haired, middle-aged former beauty, Phil, will you please tell her that I love her? Phil, go ahead and give my sister a hug for me. Tell her that I get it, that I finally understand that infinite draw to the dark side. I finally understand how your soul responds to vice as much as virtue. I get that sometimes you can only find peace on the path to self-destruction. I realize how sin is a long-lost art supply.
Phil, Iâ€™m going to miss you, but perhaps one day Iâ€™ll join you on that alternate plane of existence. I hope that someday I learn to eviscerate and reinvent myself through my art the way that you did. Phil, I admire the way that you lived, and although it terrifies me, I have to commend you on your death as well. You never failed to surprise me. Maybe someday youâ€™ll look for me up there, too.