Story notes

Written sometime in the last twelve years. Since I moved to Maine.

I just want to touch someone, to explain myself and know, to really know, that they see me. See inside me, understand and say it's okay.

A wall of words, a flood. Trying to explain, contemptuous of self for explaining - the futility of it, the hubris. Wanting to be understood without explanation.

I've been here too long - long enough to see it wasn't the place to come. I want to reach out and touch and somehow needed to go where there is no one to touch to marshal my resources enough to do it. How truly, deeply fucked.

Murder as suicide - Suicide by murder.

But so proud as to not going to make it easy to find me. So the acts have to become more horrific to draw a powerful enough response to overcome my own cunning.

Half-assed philosophical underpinnings - no such thing as good and evil, blah. An excuse to channel rage and shame, each step providing deeper blinders.

Hurried slap-dash attempts at sketching the scene - at first - paying lip service to "readability" but mostly a rush of internal voice. Driving, driving, driven. Later relax and a more orderly, normal narrative.

The impulsive rush at first. Then the back story leading to the present. When the story comes back to now the tempo ups, end delivered in the same blind rush as the beginning.