I have a confession to make . . . I sold you to the state.
The CIA is infiltrating your house as we speak.
I caught a glimpse of the spy satellite as it passed over our heads.
Orbiting every 92 minutes, quietly collecting images for the city's records.
I saw the petrified faces of you and your family on the evening news. Helpless and full of sedatives, shattered in a sea of dialogue and flashbulbs.
I heard about your last words, and I can't say that I'm sorry.
You should've seen my face, I've been so bitter towards you.
Alex was there, as powerless as the rest of them.
(Why now, Alex? I'm less of a man as I depart.)
"Sign my name too, Love. Press hard, there are three copies."