I just want to tell peoples' stories.
I want to talk to people at bars about their glory days and let them remember them. I want to know about that moment when they felt like they were on the top of the world and that moment when they woke up hugging the cobblestone. There's something about whiskey-gingers and a cigarettes that can take a person back to those places of triumph and those times of total desperation. They find those memories in their pockets like crumpled up dollar bills.
Mine do, anyway.
Can I tell you a secret?
I'm a little tired of telling my story. I have sucked it dry of its victory over the years, and I'm in that strange period of my life where I'm trying to recreate it.
In every story I hear, there's a little piece of my own story that peeks around the corner and taps me on the shoulder.
"You're alive," it whispers. "This is why."
How do you ignore a calling like that?