Recognized
He stood there, staring back at me, odd expression upon his face, smiling after I did from the other side of a huge pane window on the newly renovated office building, appearing a bit more disheveled than I remembered. More wrinkles supported his grimace and receding hairline, acknowledging me when I nodded hello. I used to know him well, athletic, sculpted, artistic, a well defined physique, but his apparent paunch negated any recent activity. This window man I thought I knew, musician, writer, runner, dreamer, now feasted off the stale menu of advancing age, aches, excuses,...
Read MoreThe Project
He felt as if he were born to the sawdust and nails of writing, working daily in hours of solitude to construct an architecture which at times seemed like a pointless task, devoid of shelter for any dweller, a paper house easily toppled in a stray breeze. On many afternoons he abandoned the work, meandered outdoors to view the project from afar, somewhat defeated yet relieved once he soaked his head in the light of the sun which cleansed the metaphors from his brain, allowing a bit of respite while the half house toppled in a sigh of wind. He could hear the creaks of settling rubble. Fallen...
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