…nowhere to begin…
She asked if I had a minute,
that turned into an hour and a half conversation
Including, among other things: prose she has supposedly written about me and tales of how I inspired her and how she thought about me all summer long.
But no apology.
boats. current. past.
happy birthday Mr. Fitzgerald.
Celebrated it one year ago with absinthe
now i sit here, sober five months.
Made a list of goals a year ago, didn’t come close to most.
Currently day to day, dreaming of the day I can write and shamelessly killing most of the hours until then.
I have written less this year than perhaps any other.
It haunts me.
-For more in this series and the story behind it, see 13 years