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written 14 Sep 2004 over dinner
The lack of emails I receive these days is utterly depressing. Not a single one in the past work day. Here I am, grueling behind a can of spray mount and cut out figures of educational cartoon trains, toiling away, and suddenly I have the idea to check my Gmail.
But alas, nada.
Nothing from you indecisive rambler, stretching on your wooden floor with the woes of a single, well-to-do 20 something. Nothing from you pawner of used furniture, no nonsensical whimsical distress signals shout out into the forever nothing air. Nothing from the cheese cake maker. Nothing from smack brother.
Nothing from Nevada. Nothing from Portland. Certainly nothing from Flagstaff but please god, something from Michigan.
Nope. Nothing from Michigan.
The sounds of a busy non-profit build up in the hallway and I lean back and take a few rocks on the ol’ wooden shotgun cockpit. If no one will write me I’ll write everyone. So take that.
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