I look at close to one hundred thousand words daily, yet I can't gather my thoughts together long enough to write.
I just want to tell a story. Your story. About the bricks in the empty television box you carried for twelve blocks to your apartment in the Bronx. I want to tell your story because it wasn't all pain, it has never been all pain.
I realize that I'm not ready to talk to people. Not in the way that we're expected to, anyway. I have nothing to say. Everything has a muted taste. We run through all the same lines of dialogue. I just want to know you--I want to know you beyond academic discourse, beyond pop culture. I want to know all of you, with all of those things, but more. I want to know what your eyes look like right before you laugh, I want to know where's your favorite place to hide.