The best work only happens when no one is looking. I used to do my best writing on the fire escape overlooking a pedestrian alley to the side of the three story brownstone walk-up where I lived back when Jo and I were dating and things were good. I remember sunrises out on that shakey steel apparatus with a coffee and a cigarette. People shuffling along the sidewalks on their way to work. The pieces here have slowed to a trickle recently because the project has changed because my memory is swimming into focus and the details are a torrent that’s too much to relay. It’s like each of these little dispatches was the tap of a ball-peen hammer on a stone wall. Each tap weakening the wall against the pressure of the presence on the other side. Memories that I’d been forced to forget rushing through the break like hungry ghosts.

Jordyn always said that the right thing to do when shit gets complicated is to ‘get back to the studio, put things in their proper place.’ So I’m back in the studio now, laying down the bed tracks. Bringing back Parker and Alice and raising Jordyn from the dead.