“I know you know a lot of musicians,” he says out of nowhere as we’re hugging goodbye. “But I want to sing at your funeral.” 

He’s strangely insistent and repeats himself twice.

 Oh, good god, I think. Because while I’m quite ill, my death isn’t imminent, he hasn’t sung professionally in decades, and he’s getting worse—now he’ll even make my last hurrah about himself. 

 I want an alternate reality, a better one, where he’s just the kind guy who’s my close friend and not somehow this stranger, as well. 

But his moods keep pivoting faster than a cheetah on Dexedrine and his fits of grandiosity are ballooning like a Macy’s parade float gone rogue. 

Later that night he sends a 15 paragraph email comparing himself to Bob Dylan. 

I reply, “I love you, but you need some fucking help.” 
 I sleep for a little while and wake up at 3:00am exhausted. 

I know he’ll ignore me again. 

In the morning I wake to a 20 paragraph email in which he’s now both Placido …