I quit my job. Yes, I quit right in the midst of financial disaster. My
friends say I've lost my mind. They're probably right, but I feel
better than ever. There's something liberating about grabbing your
dreams by the throat and strangling them, shaking them 'til money falls
out, or they injure you in self defense, knee you in the groin, poke
your eye out.
This summer, I burnt my fingertips with a blow torch, soldering a key
on my sax. My fingers have scarred over, smooth. I'm contemplating
etching a new identity. If I carve grooves just right, drop a needle on
my finger and walk in circles, do you think the song inside me, the one
that has tormented me all my life, will finally be unleashed?
It's worth a try.
If you don't hear from me for a while, assume bandages are getting in
the way of my typing.
Bye for now,
- - -
Read PR's story, "Rusty Nail."
w i g · l e a F