A thing we do, on nights when tired won’t let us do anything else. A thing we do just to keep the scent in our nostrils; to tease ourselves about what is possible:
We read. We read ourselves, our notes, the hints of what’s to come.
Not that anything makes much sense. Not that, at eight p.m. on a ragged Thursday, we are capable of much else than staring at the tv. Not that we should be doing anything other than taking a Tylenol PM and going to bed.
We read.
The collected notes prepare us for the next chapter. They are the gameplan for what’s to come. The scent. The taste. The things we give ourselves to remind us of the wonderful potential that is ahead of us. The notes.
This is a preliminary suggestion of what’s ahead. The notes for the Method Acting that the chapter will become.
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