He’s a burly man. Strong voice, 80s New York accent.
Big personality. Vibrant and ecstatic to be near his friend.
He talks about flying in from a job, being put up in a hotel tomorrow night, can I crash with you guys tonight?
I’m surprised you’d want to do that.
Thank you for wanting to.
He talks this job and that job, what’s in the horizons and pitting this one against that one.
“Angela is in San Diego doing a play, I had to come back for meetings until Friday and then we fly back to NY in 4 days.”
Let’s go for dinner.
Yes, of course.
Thank you for thinking of us.
We’ll take you to our favorite sushi joint, you’ll love it.
I yearn. I crave. I sink into nostalgia.
Is that the life of an artist? I mean, a real one?
Is that what success looks like?
Is that what happens?
I smell movement.
I feel combustion.
Movin’ and shakin’.
I smell living out loud.
All well and good but will I use these feelings for me or against me?
Will they choke me or accompany me on this journey?