the confidence of the latest empty messages in one day total: 26

inside of which there are two
jules from his cell phone. decidedly trashed in some form or another and largely indecipherable
later
paul who mutters and stammers at random—seemingly dumbstruck:
umm. hey. it’s paul. yeah, can you give me a call back if you’ve any idea why i’ve just found jules passed out in my bed. i’ve just stepped in from work. [aside to, i’m guessing, andy: fuck if i know. probably the hide-a-key. yep, yep, i bet he knows where it is. pause. well i don’t know i’m on the phone here. just go check it.] sourry. so, i’m not sure what’s going on. and i’m not very happy about this and i’m worried. we haven’t even heard from him in forever. and, there’s . . . ummm . . . doors opening and shutting . . . he’s fucking drunk all the gin in the house. oh hell. just whatever call me. and—right—how are you? i hope you’re okay. we love you here. click.

i don’t call in my biased possible explanation:
that’s the way spoiled white boys behave