There were still so many things yet to be understood. That was enough to keep him going. He wondered if anyone else used the threat of self-erasing to get out of bed in the morning. To contribute breath to the atmosphere, a carrot of a noose of a song to guide them. Or was that a silent thing. He still knew nothing about the tying of knots, or how to play chess. They say it takes a decade to master stuff like that. He wondered if suicide was like that. Was it a long chant that built a suit for you to die in or was it some one-off drug you did but didn’t think you’d go out on? He still didn’t know anything about birdcalls or sailing. He’d barely been beyond the equator. His Spanish not even close to conversational. There was that entire run of Rainer Werner Fassbinder’s Berlin Alexanderplatz,13 episodes to gorge on. Maybe he could be a filmmaker. He had so many ideas. The central one like an umbrella stalk that held over his head a shade to protect from doubt or desperate measure. There are so many things to fail at yet. So many dances to make up off the tip of the night’s tongue, just free styling the entire night. He had a comedy routine that sometimes seemed pretty hilarious. He had 2\3s of Dickens to make it through still, and the re-reading of all the faves. There was a graphic novel element to his novel, and if the suburban work war didn’t deplete him entirely every week, he could try to chip away at them all, like Ray Bradbury would. He could fill a nail with rejections slips like King. He’d never seen a wild monkey, and they had plenty in Thailand. There was an old friend there, a punk rock wunderkind in her own life, and she would surely know something he needed to know, to know a little bit of everything, a little of everyone. His friends still seemed to love him. There are people in this life who have none of the things he had. His buddies belted out The Night they Drove Old Dixie Down, and their own songs, too, late into the night and he was always allowed to be there inside the incredible love of their craft and community. He’d never actually jigged a cod. And he had only looked so far at all the beautiful women and men. He hadn’t even tried to get the Tango down. There was that one night really with the ex-dancer, the one he’d dragged along with puppy eyes to adult high school every morning, down a perfect hill back home he hadn’t walked down in years. She was a forgiving partner. The world makes angels and demons. He hadn’t even chosen a side yet. He wasn’t even done looking around. He’d spent entire days in bed with her. He dreamed of her. People out there actually survive without that; without having someone to rearrange their dreams for them. There were men who lived in a video game or a virtual space. He hadn’t had record parties. And he wanted to. He still knew nothing about why In A Silent Way was so beautiful. And he had to take Miles in at least 100 more times. Burning Man sounded amazing. There might be someone in Ireland right now waiting to meet him. He wanted to walk the roads from his jobs and haunts and homes. This story awaited overdue reenactments, like Return of Living Dead on childhood’s VHS. He’d never even needed to wear a bullet proof vest.
His list was still half undone.

It was exhilarating.