My first try didn't go so well

David told me: Until you write about it, you're harboring a fugitive.

Imagine swimming out into sea and waiting. Being a ghost, a solitary light. You sleep each night in the shape of a cresent, curled around the place where he used to be, where he would be soon. There is a date marked on the calendar in red ink.

You are sweet as a pea, soft as a shelled lobster.

The day comes and goes. And then the radio dies.

You are swimming alone at sea and then your radio dies.

You had your ocean, your jacket, your radio, the audience on shore applauding you.

Then you turn around, and no ocean, no jacket, no radio, no audience. For godsakes, you are not even a swimmer.

And that's what it's like, I tell David. That is everything there is to say about it. Is that enough? Am I done? Can I go home now? Is it going to get better?

'fraid not.