Epilogue

I am the story that will never fit in. I am the story that needs a vacation spot, that has taken time off from my 9-to-5 search for the meaning of life. I am the story that gets poured into a coffee cup and is left forgotten, cooled by memory and a ten o’clock stupor. I am the story that is desperate to be written, an advertisement for the writer whose mind is a junkyard of sweet-sad chaos. I am the story that lives in the prop-box in a theatre staging morality plays. I am a story leaving on a one-way ticket. I am the story that you see in subway graffiti and random scrawls on park benches. I am the story about a boy, a girl, about the space in between a boy and a girl. I am the story doomed to spend the rest of my life in jackets that don’t quite fit me, that will never quite fit me. I am the story without meaning or mechanics; my soul is out-of-print. I am the story that could cry, and love, and bleed. I am the story that has no title, no past-or-present, and no consequence. I am the story hidden under your bed, beyond your dreams, in the palm of your lover. I am the story of a truncated reality, unseamed by time. I am the story – I am the stories – still waiting to be written.