The letters you send get dirty out here.  They’re kind, they tell me nice stories of what you do.  I know you don’t love me though.  You’re with a new man.  The man and woman are different colours and I am both of them.  Their trickly love runs down my back, perspiration in the heat.  You can’t hear the sound of guns like I can; you don’t see the danger that I see.  But that’s what we do: we specialise and it’s survival.  I’ve dealt my last hand, you’re going to miss me when I’m gone.  I have as many chips left as days.