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 comradery?
I'm dissapointed about my job.
It's definately 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.