The end of February, a garbage truck is backing up outside my window.
Four years ago my father died, that's more than a thousand days.
Emily is across from me, her head cocked like a curious dog. She's muttering lines from an upcoming show, broken into jazz standards. Something about "Baby leaving" and "Never coming back."
Where are you in the winter when I need some camaraderie?
I'm disappointed about my job. It's definitely not what I envisioned.
Emily is staring out the window, the three armed lamp is out one bulb. I hear you are travelling around towns I can't pronounce. You know, I used to live in them! Now I must get some rest.
All the good symptoms of art will always bring some restlessness. In the februaries of my late twenties and, I suppose, my thirties.
