I haven’t been writing. The explanationis I’ve been living. But what is livingwithout writing? And also, how manybrilliant lights must be extinguishedbefore we give a collective fuck? I meanan actual fuck, not a flowery, piningwish-it-weren’t-so sigh, glorifying deathall glittery & shit, strung with quotesand the most flattering photosof the actor in his prime or your friendwhen he wasn’t completely wasted.I actually caught myself thinkingcomedians have it the worst, as thoughmorbid six-foot-deep depression were justanother station on the track of lifeif you’re unlucky enough to board the C train.Lucky for the rest of us, I guess, untilor maybe including the moment of our losswhen we rally, circle round holding hands,light some candles, fetishizing deathintoning you’re always in our hearts as thoughit’s true. But it’s not. Mostly we keepour totems squirrelled away in a boxunder the bed, reduced to trivia in a gamewhere the prize is another beer. I haven’t beenwriting. Maybe he had stopped telling jokes.