My Mojo’s gone. He disappeared into the still of the night. I don’t know if he went kicking, his scream muffled by the gloved hand of his kidnapper. Could he have been unhappy? Did he pack up his few valuables in search of true joy? Did he run away? From me?
The house is quiet, now that Mojo’s gone, but sometimes it’s like he’s still around . If I think hard enough I can hear him in the kitchen, whipping up a sandwich, or in the living room, flipping restlessly through the channels.
I miss Mojo. If you see him, tell him to come home. Tell him I’m sorry and that I really do love him.
If he was kidnapped, if he is dead … then bring me back his body that I may lay him to rest in peace.