To whom it may concern– the roses you sent on the first of the month have wilted and died. They have taken on a blackish-purple color that kind of reminds us… all of us… of dried blood. We have decided to place the stems and dried petals inside the box that had originally accompanied the flowers and take the box fifteen miles outside of town into the desert where nothing much grows. Once we get there we plan on ingesting a massive dose of peyote and digging a hole in the red clay dirt about three feet deep. Once the hole is dug and the peyote is running good and strong we plan on placing the box into the hole and slowly cutting our wrists with a sharp knife… not deep mind you, just enough to get a little flow of blood… and then we plan to let our blood drip into the hole on top of the roses. After that we plan to fill the hole with the blood stained earth, bandage our wrists, and slip into the distortion of the cooling desert evening chased by the memory of blood red roses. We… each of us… as a group and individually… sincerely hope that this message reaches you and that you are pleased by its contents. Praise be your will. Thank you.