::pause::

During which I can hear an unspoken question crackle across what would have one day been phone lines, but is now…who knows…satellites? Fiberoptics? Some mysterious pattern of electricity, directed by God knows what, your short intake of breath before you exhale a question I don’t want to can’t Don’t Want To Answer and then it comes, and I hear the breath forced from your lungs because you know, from my electrical current silently singing back to you that I don’t know anyway

But

You are so goddamned stubborn. And so you ask, like you always do.

“so what’s going on with your writing?”