It is 2 a.m. These printed words are the final testaments of my life. I walk down the street, and my feet have made up their mind. One block away is the catalyst of my masterpiece. The sidewalk will be my canvas.
For the past two years I have searched for the answer. The cure. The piece I never had. My parents, Mark and Anne, never inquired. They never saw past the grade card, past the sleeves of my jacket. There is no answer. Some of us are just meant to die, and history will not remember us.
But perhaps my masterpiece will be remembered, at least by some. Continue reading