a few seasons ago i was sitting on my front porch trying too hard to read a kurt vonnegut novel because my language arts teacher at the time told me i would enjoy it. my neighbor from across the street, a writer for our local paper, asked me where i'd been walking earlier that day, having seen me transverse our street with earbuds in. i told him i'd gone to my therapist, to which he compared therapists to chinese food in that with one bad experience both can be ruined forever.

in years since he has endured a complete mental breakdown, left our street, and even appeared at my job to tell me "i hope everything is going well for you. see you around." those are the last words he ever spoke to me.

i have yet to see this neighbor again. he's doing much better now, however, and i think he's the person i write for.