Forwarding Address I climbed back inside of my body today. I worried that my fingerprints would have changed, or that I had lost parts of my brain. I found myself on the side of the road, a sleeping bag with nobody home, but something in there still breathing. Did you ever have a man tell you how to write the first lines of your story? As if he already knew the beginning and the end? Did he tell you when the main character storms off the page? Did he tell you when to be more specific, or when to be vague and timeless? Did you ever forget yourself? I remember how you would tell me I could visit my friends, and I asked you, How? Because I was so far up in space, I would never make it there alive. Months later I finally thought of the perfect analogy: You telling me I could leave was like telling a dog on a three foot chain to go fetch. The ball following an invisible arc beyond the atmosphere and all I could do was whine, and howl at the shadow of what left me behind. Did you ever really want to know why I left? Or is it better like this, you tracing the reasons back to anything, or anyone, but yourself? Did you think I wouldn’t break my neck just to get free?
Goddaaaaamn. I love this one. So many great lines.