I want to say something about what the last three months has taught me about friendship, and the relations between the sexes, and about love, and about sacrifice, but it’s not mine to say.
I want to say something about desire and loss, and about wanting the impossible, and about communication between people who are in totally different times in their lives, but that’s not mine to say either.
I want to say things about healing pain with art, and about the gap that you can’t bridge with art or anything else, and about the necessity of dishonesty, fiction, and fantasy in every day life but that is in fact not mine to say anyway.
So, what I have to say only is this: I am a creature of incompletion. I can’t say anything above because I am just short of any kind of experience in love or in art that would entitle me to say anything to any of you, who are all beyond me.
So, floating in your wake, I offer this: I have a lot to impart about the state of incompleteness, of almost, of being a 60% solution, and about truncation and half-baked things and missed connections.