Of cigars and stories

The Col. Sumner park was full of bicyclists, a man danced with his pet, and I watched from afar, on a bench, taking in night air and nicotine. I purchased a little tin of good cigars last week, Broadway Cigars in NE. They are a wonderful thing to walk around at night with and watch the strange things that occur in Portland after dark.
I looked up and watched the stars through Macanudo haze. I bowed my head and gestured with my hand in the fashion of days long gone to a couple of young women I’ve spoken to before. I felt like the old man of the neighborhood, the one who walks everywhere and talks with whoever will listen. I know many people, and speak to them with my old man cigar, telling small stories in the completeness of night. So I walk around and exist as solitary comfort.
The night I sat and watched bicycles, and saw two women I know, an idea occurred. I figured out how my book ends. This is no small thing since I’ve been stuck circumnavigating the parts I know for weeks now. It was so simple, so pure… the voice should be correct for the story. And so I rushed over to a pub I like, to sit at a table and type furiously my revelation. And so it was that I looked upon the glowing screen and saw the primal, raw, form of the completeness of story. It is far from a draft, but the skeleton is there now, the outline of the thing.
It’s an exciting thing to catch a glimpse of something yet to be created, like sonograms and Legos.

I guess I just wanted to tell you that.

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