My world changed on November 4, 2001. I discovered that one of my best friends, Brian Chavez, overdosed on heroin and died at four o' clock in the morning. In the blink of an eye, my low-key 26-year-old little brother was gone.

Brian was many things to many people, most of which we took for granted. To me at one time or another, he was a roommate, a percussionist, a lead actor, a sound designer, a hiking partner, a drinking and toking buddy, a philosopher, a student, a music enthusiast, a co-worker, a driver, a navigator, a wanderer, a project, a teacher, an inspiration, a lesson, and a friend for the rest of my days.

When I heard the news, I maintained my composure for about four minutes before I broke down and wept. I grieved for him more than anyone else in my life, even Jesus when I was a Christian. All of the other deaths had a distance to them. Grandparents and relatives, who passed away, lived a solid quantity of time. I last saw Brian briefly on Halloween, and two days before that, we spent a couple hours on his porch, drinking a couple Red Dogs and catching up in the afternoon sun. I was recruiting him for a new project. We had several things left to do.

When I moved back to Albuquerque in 1996, he became a roommate to Matt and myself. We all lived together for two years during our tumultuous early twenties, creating an unspoken bond. We pushed each other to explore ourselves and become unique individuals. In that respect, we all succeeded. I will never know another person like him.

Like many musicians, he expressed himself best in music, or in my perception, sound in general. Earlier this year, we created an immense sound pack for a prison play. I would describe a sound to him with adjectives, and he would create it by punching up commands on his computer. We would bend sound, reverse it, chop it up into little pieces and reformat it into something never heard before. There were nights when that would be all we did, and neither of us could think of anything better to do. His talents went relatively untapped, but the results were incredible when he was motivated.

For all of his impressive qualities, Brian always suffered. He grew up in a Catholic environment, and he didn't realize he was gay until he was 24. On his 21st birthday, some friends took him to a strip club, and he ended up befriending a crack whore. The worst element always clung to him, and he tolerated them far more than he should. Even after his realization, he could never keep a rewarding sexual relationship. His most successful attempt was a 19-year-old boy who would stop by every now and again. He was always searching for a way to be comfortable, and everything was a short term fix.

He never dominated the conversation, always content to be the dark figure taking in the scene. Most people knew him in a periphery way, if at all. The ones who got to know him were rewarded by their moments with him. On New Year's Day this year, several of us got together at his place and watched one of his favorite movies, 2001: A Space Odyssey. It would be the beginning of the last year of his life.

I spent this week, coping with the entire range of emotions. Anger, fear, pity, jealousy, relief, exasperation, failure, numbness, and on and on. I sat and listened to his roommate as the details of his final hours were revealed to me. This was the second time in his life that he had shot up heroin. He didn't tell me about it the last time we spoke. I drove half a city away as his family prayed for his soul at a Rosary and stuck his shell in a mausoleum wall at the funeral, while helping his roommate (who was evicted) move out. I stood in the room where he died. I stared at the bed where he died. I aged ten years this week. We will have no more moments together.

I blindly salvaged his music collection which was sitting unnoticed in the corner of his room. No one else was going to save it. Well over a hundred CDs of music that influenced him. When I sat down at home and looked at the collection, I realized how much we enjoyed the same artists, the same expressions.

That's what really hurts. Brian and I thought very much the same about life. We searched this place together and separately and came to many of the same conclusions. If this guy can disappear in a blink of an eye, then we all can. From the moment he moved in with me five years ago, we became friends for life. I just wish his life would have been much longer.

I love you, Brian. You were the only little brother I had in this world, and you made me proud to know you on several occasions. Now, it's time to live a life that would make you proud of me.

Chris Jungle hears so much more since meeting Brian.