The terrible concequence of procrastination and compromised decisions.

There are sounds like foghorns or morning alarms that are trying guide this once was inamorato, but he's so far gone that these sounds seem like a crowd in a close tunnel, a cacophony echoing all over the place and bouncing from ear to ear.







And everything reminds him of it. Payphones start ringing and lights turn red with nobody else around. It's like he's suppose to be still. but he's not still, not ever. Stillness means wasted time, and any wasted time opens the gates for some sort of muse and unwanted thought.

And so he continues moving. He doesn't ever go anywhere, really; he's satisfied with circles. He has to pay the bills and the child support food and has to have enough left over to buy his emotions from Kenny, the guy who cleans up the bistro after closing time, because the emotions he has are far too cumbersome to cope without an extra hand.

He goes home every night to his desk, his bed, his couch, and his refrigerator. He reads his book, drinks cheap wine, and writes letters. Tonight he's on letter number forty-five. They're letters to his son.

Letters telling him everything.

Why he's not with him, How much he loves him, how sorry he is, all of his problems, all of his addictions, all of his regrets, his advice on how getting through school, his advice on women, how to fix up old Mustangs, how to catch a baseball, why the Red Sox are the only team worth rooting for, how beautiful Spain is in autumn, all of his favorite music, how his band sounded in high school, how he had taken the captain of the cheerleading team to prom, where the best coffee place on the west coast is, how he met his son's mother, how he wrecked the car because he was drunk, how his love left him because of his state, how sorry isn't enough, how he can never forgive himself...

He doesn't quite remember if he repeats anything in the letters. He tries not to, because he has so much to say, and can't waste paper and ink on things he's previously stated.

When he's finished, he takes the letters, seals them, and adds the postage and address. He takes one last look at it and walks into his bedroom

opens the bottom drawer of his desk

and drops the letter in.