Thursday, November 14, 2013


"Tea?" Moloney asks. I nod and get up from my desk and we walk the Wolfenstein-like hallways of the Paragraph Factory to the place where the hot water flows.

"What's up?" I ask her, because this is the second time today Moloney has wanted to grab a cup, and this is odd.

"Nothing," she says, before wondering aloud what is up with me. The answer, of course, is not forthcoming. But it makes me wonder what vibe I'm sending. Just yesterday, Malibu asked me what was going on. I'm not being coy when I shrug and say nothing of substance — there's really no news to report, no new information about the state of RED. I'm here. I inhale, exhale. My black heart still beats, much to the dismay of my sworn enemies.

I have acquaintances and colleagues and a few good friends; a job I do well; a roof over my head and veggie burgers in the freezer. I've finished the first round of edits on the play, and I'm past the 50,000-word mark on a novel and a collection of columns, old and new. All without the help of an old monkey, and with the help of a silent muse. I can honestly say I'm at the top of my writing game, a place I never thought I'd be just a year ago.

Wrong? What could possibly be wrong?

The phone alerts me to a message and I rush to see who it is. It's Circle, letting me know what's going on in my local network. I click the phone off and let the silence build until the ringing in my ears overwhelms. Things have never been so swell.

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