My parents have left for Mesquite, leaving Musette and me the house. She doesn’t know it yet. She’s at work. I’m scrolling the Craigslist feed. There’s nothing. I’ve got to update my LinkedIn. I’m feeling sick of everything. Bored and dead. Already. Again.

I want her to tell me that I’m doing okay. That it’s all going to turn out alright for us. That all of our dreams come true.

Can’t you just play with my safe heart?

I applied to two places. Two bookstores. I also applied to be a document delivery driver doing some Junior or maybe better shall I say Apprentice work with a private investigation firm.

Don’t forget that you’re an agent, I tell myself. So much of your work involves being out in the field.

I am the hero come back.

A true Detective.

My dad called me the prodigal son last night. Tissue boxes, the house sigil, are everywhere, on every surface. The soul of this here writer. Ghosts growing clumpy in the decay of this world.

Another suicide, shot in the head in his driveway.

There are going to be family parties.

Big golden keeps licking my hand. No dogfood at her mom’s apartment.

I saw the crime scene when I went to pick Musette up from the train station last night. Almost tried to drive up to it, but decided it might not be the best thing to do.

This place is under death investigation. The amount of abnormal, violent, dark occurrences has exceeded reasonable standards, causing me to submit request for full time investigation parameters.

Now I can be everybody’s favorite dark Detective full time. Coming soon, you can call me a dad.

Code adam at the Macys. We’re looking for towels. Musette’s twin calls, asking about Texas Roadhouse. Another sick morning. Puking out my butt with trumpet precession.


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