There you are, old soul of mine. We'll make it through this, all of us: me, myself, Rene, Ara Batur and I.

The riders came to town ( Read more... )

Why are we not perfect?

I love the story I'm telling.

New Peter Broderick, dear lord thank you.

We three descend to confront a year's silence. Will the final promise, made face to face the last time we met be honored? These are the days when we will learn how much I failed you; and what will finally let me move on.

I promise I will learn from your mistakes.

Keep the days cold.

How much of my soul is left?

Under the comforter, pressing our feet against each other.

I can taste it, the air is returning. Off, still distant on the horizon but now a distinct outline, is the date that marks a year of this solitude. And so I realize that I have entered what is distinctly the "third age" of myself. The first: painfully naive, happy, hopelessly devoted to the law until broken by peers and the first pains of love. The ( Read more... )