I have been meaning to write a book. That is, I want to write a book. The story nags at me to be written as it writes itself in my head. My voice once clacked from a typewriter years back in college. It sang the song of a story, written not long after dropping the fourth or fifth Long Island Ice Tea at a bar, who’s name I no longer remember. I think it was the story who dropped the glass and not me, as I recall, it was the story who distracted me.