Meet Paolo, my alpaca.
Anyway, I'm sorry about the broken promises, the misrepresentations, the truths-at-the-time-but-truths-no-longer (they are a shade of lie, not lies outright). I'm sorry I never wrote about all the things I said I would, that I stopped writing all together. I thought maybe I'd do what all the great writers do (what so many writers, published and unpublished, do): I'd wake up early in the morning, the sky an innocent gray, somber and sobering and quiet, with just a hint of blue, I'd wake up then and write. And I'd write, oh, for an hour or so, pouring forth my brilliance onto a welcoming and hungry page, to a rapt and thirsty audience. The words would come, easily, as they almost never do in reality. The prose would ring strong and true, with just a touch of irony, wit balanced against truth, and I would approach the day strengthened by the exercise, knowing that if I had the discipline to wake and write, I would have the discipline to accomplish anything (everything) that day.
That remains a dream and will remain a dream as long as I sit here and type at this ungodly hour of the night-morning, trying to remember the name of the boy who capped some long-ago, half-forgotten dream, and those were his words, "I hope that was a nice cap to your night."
