Jimmy urges, Write. I try. The novel does not want to be written. Instead, I start stories that go unfinished, but the act calms the restlessness in me, if temporarily.
There are projects. There is the novel. Those unfinished short stories. The photo-essay on donut shops. A biography of Angela Carter. An incomplete zine. An incomplete university degree.
The introduction of my OTL (One True Love) to my parents.
Unmended shirts. Notes, of these times, of Oakland, of people Iíve known, of people I want to read about in my books - never taken. Oh, and the books never picked up!
Songs never played over and over again, at night when Jimmyís asleep and you are alone with your melancholy.
Letters never sent, brimming with the little beauties of the everyday. Uncrossed thresholds, of friends faraway. Cities and continents and coasts, never trodden by my feet.
Kisses, unpressed. Many full moons, unwatched. Bridges, inadequately burned. Days and months and years, yet to have, yet to pass, yet to mourn.