don't worry

I don’t need sleep when wine’s made its way deep. The sky is high and dark but lit with thousands of bright pin pricks that glint and twinkle and make me believe that if I keep at it—banging away at these fucking keys—things will one day come together. For the better. And even though I need nothing else because I’ve got it all in S.B., Oogie and Little Man, and we are all fed, clothed and safe two blocks from the big lake in the solid old house that that keeps us together, comforted and warm—I always want more. Out of these words. These nights. My restless all-or-nothing life. Because I know—all too well—that time is ticking off. Never to come again. And that what I’m doing—as insignificant as it seems, is the kind of thing that can last. Not because it is mine. Not because I was part of it. But because I believed it. And people have lived it. Time and time again. It is common. Expected. The thing that best-selling novels, prime-time TV and block-buster movies are made of. And it’s in our fiber. Our blood. The bone. Babies born without breath. Wives with silent husbands. Husbands with silent wives. And hungry lovers everywhere. Waiting with heat and sweet smells and promises nobody can keep. But it’s okay. Don’t worry. Men write stories every day and struggle with accepting the greatness they have. They drink too much. Use unnecessary profanity. And elevate themselves far beyond reality. Because they have to. The clock does not wait. Chance is not infinite. And none of this will be coming with us when we’re gone. So, let’s drink. Not sleep. Let the wine go deep as the dark sky finds light—a thousand bright pin pricks at a time—and let’s try to make things better by being our best. Banging away. One key at a time. Thankful for what we have. But aware that the world needs more. Out of words. These nights. Our all-or-nothing life.