I had a dream.
It was the year 2015, and I was in a room, a room I had never been in before. There were other people, they were drinking, doing drugs. They were intoxicated. And there among all these people I saw him. Broken. Not doing well. I talked him into leaving with me, but as I was walking, holding him up, I realized how confused he was. The situation seemed desperate, so serious. He was not well.
I started telling him that God loved him, something like that. I was pleading. He was so out of it.
The next thing that I remember is that we were at the top of the street that I grew up on. The street that we had walked so many times. The snow was falling lightly, and I knew that he was leaving. I knew I wouldn’t see him again.
As he was walking away, I noticed that he had left his guitar case behind. I shouted for him to come back. I shouted that he would need his guitar for where he was going. I think I gave it to him. He never said anything. He was so unwell, and there was such a resignation, like he had already left.