Tonight I stand under pine trees much older than the decaying-before-their-time condos where my sister lives and stars dimmed by the industrial haze and excessive heat in the air. Melancholy. It is how I feel. But it isn’t such a bad thing tonight. It is not pain, but ache. Pain alloyed with pleasure. Like the way my soul aches for yours and will never again be satisfied. That kind of ache is nourishment for the soul of a writer. Anguish will slow you down. Anguish is a bitch. But ache. Ache is what gets monuments built.
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