The rain. You know. The gray. You know. Suddenly, the temperature goes from 95 degrees to 60. Like overnight. And all the leaves are on the ground. And the summer is gone. Like every one before. Like the Don Henley song.

There was an accident on the highway this morning. Well. On both sides. The north-facing accident was worse. At least ten cars. We saw the police pulling a baby seat from the back of an upside down Audi. I looked away before my eyes could find the child. But not before I saw a flash of tiny skin.

Like a large doll. Like plastic. Like I did not want to see that. 

You prolly understand, right? I mean. Becuz now I will never forget.


I mean. Cars were on their sides, crumpled into the concrete divider. And turned around and smashed. Glass. Airbags. Side mirrors along the road.

Me with the defroster on; with my money; on the way to the child support office. Joy Division on the radio. The Alarm. New Order. Morrissey. Sad song after sad song. Lyrical transportation to the time when the world did not contain maimed children; maimed hearts;

dead dreams. And o. How I knew I would be a writer then. And o how tasty the fame felt against my tongue. My unbruised tongue.

But I never knew the words would hurt so badly. Did you? Did anyone ever tell you?

I did not know the asdf would quarantine the good person lurking somewhere deep inside of me from every soul except the junkies and the mad ones. Or how everything else would fall apart. And how nothing would ever come out right once I decided I was a typer. And how we would have our keyboards and little else while everyone else got summer homes and careers.

Ah, the life of an unknown writer. Motioning. Feeling too deeply. Not caring at all. Perpetually on the outside. Conning our way in again and again. Only to find things lacking once we penetrated those fickle walls.

Only to leave. Again and again.

Only to feel more alone than we ever thought possible.

Yeah. That is what the words do. Don't they? They hold you like you've never been held.

And then they stab you thru the heart.

I mean. Listen. Mornings like today don't really work for me. You prolly understand, right?