I could slick back my hair and shine my shoes and pick a name you only hear on television. I could send drink after drink down the bar, give a nod, and wait for you to come to me. Better yet, I could walk right up to you and say hello, say that I saw you from across the whatever, ask you a question about yourself. I could keep my name in my back pocket and reveal it only when you needed me to.
I could make these late nights mine. Return to the time when I slept three hours, drink more coffee, eat more protein, run more miles, find the energy in myself that's been hiding and dying all these years. Diminishing returns is a law, not a theory, and it's one I practice every day. And though by going against it I am attempting the improbable, it is an attempt.
There are dark lights, awful music, produce, watercolors, a place filled with trees and birds. There are words and phrases pinched from books and films, the name from television, a combination from my closet. We play our parts every day. We had to learn them sometime. Everything is at some point new, scary, it would not be the first time my breath was deep. And deep is where I must go, to get the ball bouncing high again, send it to the stratosphere, around the sun, and back to you.
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