Sometimes, when he couldn’t sleep and could no longer stay in bed, Bull would get up and sit at the kitchen table and write letters of apology or condolence to people he’d make up.
I was devastated to hear of the loss of your son, one might say. He was something like a brother to me. Or, I know you deserved to be treated better, but back then, I didn’t know how.
After he’d written a page or two, Bull would stack the fresh letter with the others and head back to bed, where he’d fall asleep easily and unburdened.