Some stories are destined to be unfinished; they ignite, blazing through their own ego, then burn out, watching their ashes drift away into the void of their own beginning.


      I played in the unfinished basements of unfinished homes.

      I rented unfinished apartments; I leased unfinished houses with boyfriends who became unfinished lovers that led to marriage, unfinished.

      I took unfinished classes, always starting where I’d already been.

      I left my work unfinished at the end of each day, returning in the morning to more unfinished tasks.

      I read unfinished stories; I left uncapped pens alone to dry beside a page of unfinished words not yet begun…

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