The year was 1991.... a young fledgling rock star from Seattle was in pain. A lot of pain. Rigorous touring was not to blame. Soon the young musician realized something was wrong. Very wrong. His wife, that he'd had memories of but never actually met was missing from his life. From that time period in general. Trapped in 2012, she awaits a way back. A way back to change the future... a future that turns into a place with no Kurt Cobain.

A murder plot that turns into the most famous suicide in history, this site is dedicated to the small story of the husband who left a billion clues for the wife who figured them out.

Now her goal is to avenge her husband's death by pinning the murderer's with their crime...

Meanwhile she pours herself into her journal, awaiting the day she is finally reunited with her husband in time.

Letters to Kurt...


Monday, August 15, 2011

A message to Dylan Carlson --

You, like many people I've come across in this miserable lifetime full of bleak souls who just wanna use, use, and use the kind and pure, do not surprise me.

I have been manipulated again and again by soulless parasites who just want to abuse the soft-hearted and fragile kind who seek only a loyal and fond friendship with another individual they hold dear through a supposedly "mutual" trust that is understood between the two individuals in question.

I never entirely knew the full story of your relationship with Kurt but tonight he informed me.

Turns out you didn't actually have anything to do with his death, that's not a surprise, but your 'reaction' was a harsh blow to the boy who did consider you someone he loved and appreciated, and assumed that meant you felt the same.

He loved and appreciated you so much that he 'donated' over ONE MILLION dollars for you heroin fetish, just to find that your passing reaction to the death of a man (who only considered one person in his love(less) world a true friend (YOU)),

That passing reaction was "huh..." Time to go smoke some more heroin.

You had not earned the right to even breath in the same air as him, let alone call yourself his "best friend", you piece of shit.

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