No one ever said you could give your life to something and not have it pay off. That someone else could win the prizes without half as much longing.

Staring at la luna doesn’t really bring it closer, it just seems that way, because your pupils dilate to let in moonshine. You can't even retain its scant light in the clutch of your eye's closed fist.

That girl you’re eyeing across the room, sitting as if alone and in need of solace, is not waiting for you.

The folks you work with have their own crosses to bear, bills and children to feed. To them, you must seem pale and distant, bloodless. Your presence less than flesh, an odd wind: cold, passable.

No one's interested in your life-story, unless you can spin it into art, tell it like it is their own. The art of story is a mirror in which we yearn to look. But not too closely.