With a Flowing Hand

It’s time to write of unnecessary things, to imagine alternative endings to journeys not taken. It’s time to write of bits of string, one small fake discolored Swiss Army knife, a lucky pebble that has brought me nothing but its own preordained boredom. However, string, knife, and stone have had nothing good to say about me for years. I could write of more back-of-the-draw stuff, or redraw the landscape of my youth snipping and pasting-in a cast of characters that never existed, for it is still true that every tale needs to be repainted from time to time. For the time being, I am these hands wrapped around a muggy mug of coffee, these thoughts scrimshawed upon its unwashed rim.