Bob Collén and I go quite some way back. We met through his publisher in 1998. I bought a book of poetry of his in New Salem, Massachusetts, and I wanted to get in touch with him (“Robert Collén,” November 16, 1998). We hit it off at once. Ever since, we exchanged thousands of poems, prose poems, stories, and the like. I actually met him and Gloria, his wife, only once and briefly. This was in London not long before I left England for good (“Like Reunited Brothers,” July 2, 2001). The last piece I wrote about Bob reached him through his wife when he was quite ill already (“Bob about Ranko,” August 12, 2014). Sadly, he was too ill to respond. This morning I found Gloria’s message I have feared as of late. Bob passed away yesterday morning. I responded at once, but I was rather terse. “All I can do is cry,” I managed to write. Indeed, we were brothers of mind. Born on May 18, 1928, he was eighty-six years of age. Eighteen years my senior, he understood me better than most. He was one of the very few people on earth whom I considered a reader worthy of my writings. And there could hardly be any greater praise for a human being I could ever come up with. Farewell, Bob! Yes, I am crying again.