One friend of mine is about to be a dad, and he is working at a bowling alley. He wears vintage shirts. Another friend is an artist. He has a pet mouse. Coffee with the two of them, the artist still paint flecked.
We talk about Jack Kerouac, David Carradine, the Simpson, the Flintstones. The artist asserts the martian on the Flintstones was pretentious and as a child it pissed him off. I strangle a smile, because he’s serious. And maybe he’s right.
I listen. I laugh. I think.
Where do stories come from? Novels? Poems? Moments, I think. People.