It was always your nature to change, not just yourself, but anyone close to you as well. It was part of your charm. And then you tried to change me, you stupid son of a bitch, and I wouldn't, or couldn't be changed, not even for you.

You dyed your hair bubblegum blue and started taking advice from Jerry like his fucking words were passed down by God. I changed my sound, you said. That's bullshit, Brian, and you know it. I didn't change a fucking thing, and that was the real problem. If you're honest, it wasn't my 'sound' you were interested in anyway, but something rather lower on the anatomy. Don't get me wrong, I was happy to oblige, but the reality of it is that, in the end, like me, you were sick of seeing our pictures in every celebrity magazine the world over; a nickel apiece for any pre-pubescent boy to jerk off to.

Jerry had made just about all the gold he could off of parading me around, so I was just a loose end that needed to be tied up or cut off—I could understand that.

And you . . . well, you used people, Brian. You changed them to suit you, then used them up and threw them away. It started with your sweet little Mandy, and I think maybe . . . maybe I was the only one to walk out before you decided you were finished with me. Even so, I loved Brian Slade, and I could forgive him for using me. We all use people.

I didn't say anything when I left—I didn't have to. We'd already said all there was to say; anything more would have been just glitter. So I left, 'back to my wolves, my junkie twerps, and bloody shock treatments,' as you put it. I was actually surprised to find them still waiting for me.

Fuck me, indeed. You certainly did.

"The world has changed because you are made of ivory and gold. The curves of your lips rewrite history" . . . Do you remember those words? I said them to you . . . it seems like ages ago. You know, later, after everything was finished between us, I even wrote a song around those words. I got drunk one night and burned it, and never could remember exactly how it went again.

That's the effect you had on me, and the world I think. You inspired us to poetry and music.

Christ, even Mandy had a bit of the poet in her, though it seemed to show itself at the oddest possible moments. She's a smart woman, your cute little wife, but I bet you didn't know that. She played the silly, vapid party girl so well, even you believed there was nothing more. Your poor wife. Your poor, sweet, stupid wife. She didn't have a fucking clue in God's creation what she was getting herself into when she married you, did she? The bitch loved you, and even funnier than that, she thought you loved her. What she didn't know, and what I found out too late, you've never loved anyone—except maybe yourself, and I even wonder about that.

"Everyone stole from Jack," do you remember her saying that? She said it all the time, like it was the most insightful idea in the goddamned world. And of course, it was true, but everyone knew that. "Everyone stole from Jack." Of course they did; before Jack, there was nobody to steal from. Jack Fairy invented glam rock—or at least he invented the look of glam rock. And he did it by just being his own weird self.

Then here I was, the ultimate 'wild child', and you couldn't get me in a dress to save my wretched fucking soul . . .

"Mr. Stone." Shannon didn't bother knocking this time. Tommy might get angry, he might shout at her, but he'd be even angrier if she didn't say anything. "I really think you should talk to this—"

Tommy looked up, his blue eyes flashing dangerously. "I thought I told you to get out and not interrupt me."

"But, sir, it—it seems like it's kind of important, and—"

"You are a heartbeat away from losing your job Shannon. Whoever is waiting for me can fucking wait. Now get out. Don't make me tell you again."

She swallowed and nodded, then left again.

Tommy ran a hand through his already tousled blonde hair and turned to the last page of the letter.

I saw you again briefly, at that concert Jack Fairy and I threw—what was it called? Death to Glitter, or something like that . . .