I’m not
here. I haven’t been
here in a long
time. I checked out
somewhere around
’95 or ’96. I don’t
remember what I
was doing then, but it was
probably something I
shouldn’t. Since then, I
have lied, cheated, and
stolen. I have
fucked, punched, bitten, kicked, and
abandoned. I have
regretted. I have
wept. I don’t
know where I
am anymore, or
why. Don’t look to me
for answers. Don’t ask me
how. Let me burn out,
a forgotten candle.
Melt me down and
make something else,
something more grateful,
something better.
Anything
other than me.
No. I don’t want a different version of you, want the you version of you, the one right now, the one that thunders and howls and feels like some wild creature. The writer. Want that version, because there is nothing better. Because there is no 1995 or 1996. There’s just now. You always hurt me, Jones. Always.
Keep coming back for it, Lewin.
Always.