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In college, we drank cheap wine out of the box – from walmart, the carlos rossi and anything else red under $5.

We drank our wine out of coffee mugs, many borrowed or stolen from the coffee shop across the road.

We watched re-runs of Law and Order: SVU and stacked the empty boxes and bottles on the window sill.

If work was necessary, it was performed after, in the dark in the hall on the torn couches and shaggy carpet. The boys down the hall had dragged them there – up three flights of stairs and through the center door way – the door, still, off its hinges.

The work was frantic. Pages measured hours, or minutes, depending on the timeframe. The brick walls of 8:00AM – the unwelcome first sightings of dawn and the near frantic spellchecker in the margins.

Writing was a game. I discovered post modernism and committed myself to its strangeness, its uncertainty. Thesis statements and supporting topics, research statements. It was a puzzle. These twisting lines crossed and worn into the paper beneath. There are tracks to follow, trails through the language. Rocks and rivers. Ridges.

There were runs at dawn, pre dawn, between the writing and the wine. The hills broke and flattened. It was endless, the motion and the movement that made it possible.

And then there is this couch, this bottle of wine, something red and thick. The televison plays to create sound and light.

It is snowing outside. The light reflects in the dark, sharpens through the glass, and cuts into the floor and its shadows.

The writing is still a game. Frantic. Chasing the cursor. Ideas curled into memories, fractured and stitched together with language.

The tracing is all there is to play.

I think back to the resort just beyond the hill, the stories there. The skier with blue pants and thick skis who pulled a PBR from his jacket and offered his condolances.

The writing. The writing, faceless lines crossed and buried. The wine continues. The cups have become more elaborate.