I'm thinking in Facebook status updates that I do not post.
I'm trying to improve my OK Cupid profile.
I'm trying to say what makes me quintessentially me when I don't know what that is.
I'm not writing anything right now.
There's a story I haven't told whose central image is an angel standing just inside the edge of a snowy wood overlooking the banks of a frozen creek. A dog has just saved a boy from the water. In the end, the boy sits on the bank, staring across at the angel, who is singing in a language that is not language, in a sound beyond sound, looking on with self-involved indifference as the boy's dog dies. I don't know the rest of the story.
I never know the rest of the story even when I'm the one telling it.
My birthday was a week ago. I didn't celebrate it. That's another little thing.
There are many little things.
The timing's been wrong.
It wasn't a very good year.
I meant to write you a letter, but what would I have told you?
I'm still where you left me, but I think I'll be leaving soon.
Yes, I'll have to be moving on soon.
What I need to do is happening somewhere else, but it's okay.
Don't worry, it's okay.
I'm very good at starting over.