Well who’s going to write a story about that, he wondered. I knew what he was thinking and I was thinking not me, man, I got better things to do like re-arrange my sock basket. And then he pushed me and said write the thing and I spent many hours thinking about the thing. I wrote it in my head for days, preparing to put it formally on a document.

I sat down to write and found videos for a 100-hour-recipe for brownies and rescuing opossums and racist gift baskets and all kinds of good shit and then I went to sleep and woke up with no ink on my hands. I mean, who really wants to read a story about an owl, anyway? Actually I do because there’s something there and he’s telling me his story and I can’t get it out of my head. I’ve been writing the same story over and over and over, editing the same sentence because it’s my thing. It’s what I do. It’s gotta be perfect out of the box or just forget it all.

Then I think about Milton who wrote the epic “Paradise Lost” in free verse which is 10,000 lines; Dante who wrote “Inferno” in triple rhyme in 14,233 lines; Shakespeare who wrote 154 heart-tearing sonnets of 14 lines each… and I’m erasing the first sentence again and again and again. Modus Operandi.

The owl will pop out soon enough. I just needed a space to complain. Thank you and good night.