"It was like so, but wasn't."

For so long, now, the membership roll of favorite contemporary(ish) authors has been closed gathering dust, that the reluctant crackling open of its desiccated spine, booklice scurrying for cover, is of some personal moment for me.

But just the same, in what's left of the ink I use to record such things, while my mind remains ductile enough to accommodate change, I add one more.

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. The only man to whom I am not related to by blood who has made me weep twice. And in only two attempts. I don't really write reviews; they turn invariably elegiac or rank and spiteful, condescending. This elegy will have to suffice. With aid of one more commonplace:

The life we lead is our only maybe. The tale we tell is the must that we make by living it.

At once convincing me that I must write and reminding me that to do so is to embrace failure before I begin. It would be easier to be just another lawyer.