The Quest for a Reason...and Love, I guess. Noah isn’t a writer. He just writes. He writes poetry, but, then, he’s not sure if it is poetry since he doesn't allow his words to rhyme. Rhyming is for simple men and sad girls. He did read somewhere, though, that poetry has a rhythm and he feels a rhythm when he writes, so he calls it Poetry. He writes in cheap, blue notebooks. He puts a sticker on the front of the books so he knows where he began and where he will begin again. The stickers are of plump women. Today, his cover Muse is a busty woman dressed as a schoolgirl, sitting at a desk, showing just a hint of white cotton panties. He likes white cotton panties. And he loves his pen. When he first decided to write, he knew he needed a proper pen. He did his research and found a real pen store, not a place that sold pens, as well. The store was ordered and clean. He knew his pen would be there. He walked to the back of the store, near a restroom that said Out Of Order. He wondered where the clerk "did business". On top of a case of simple, but elegant Esterbrooks was a large glass he recognized as a Manhattan cocktail glass. He knew the pen he would buy. It was crammed into the Manhattan glass with other, less cosmetic pens. These would be the last pens picked for a schoolyard game. Towards the back of the bunch was one with a curious yellow marbling. He picked it up and held it. The weight was good. He doodled on the scrap of paper provided next to the glass. It was a writer’s pen. It is the pen he will be holding when they discover his body. He bought it and with it he writes things like this: People pack lies with their lunch. They seal them with their sighs. ‘One day I’m going to…’ is the brown bag that carries them. And other things like: Today the words stumble out of the pen. They line up without looking at me. Noah looks out the window of his room. He sees bare trees, a park bench covered with aging snow, clouds of exhaust from rusted cars, people walking with small steps. It is January, it is Minnesota, and it is colder than God's indifference. He has lived in this converted mansion for five months. Before that he lived in a real house with a real woman. Then, five months and one day ago, she asked him to live someplace, anyplace, else. She said she realized she didn’t love him anymore. What he didn’t say in return was that he had never loved her. He had no words for her. Not then. Because he hadn’t started writing them. Not real words, anyway, because didn’t own a real pen yet. He used whatever he found. Bics, more often than not. Good utilitarian pens, but not full of many interesting words. With a Bic, all he could write was: Need to focus more. And things like: Call Larry about loan. But more often: Hamburger Helper. Milk. Cheese. Laundry soap. Looking back, he was just a monkey with a stick. Noah wants to sharpen his writing skills so people will like him. He is often mistaken for a jerk. He thinks it’s because he’s tall, 6’4”. He slouches a bit from years talking to shorter people, so when he tries to stand straight, it makes it seem he is trying to make himself larger, which intimidates some people, which causes fear, which causes resentment, which brings the word “jerk” to mind, as in, “Just because he’s tall doesn’t mean he’s better than me. Who does this jerk think he is?” and they continue to pay attention, but stop listening. Noah knows that if he writes well, it will make him attractive to people. Not in a physical way. He knows that is not possible. He has mirrors. No, he wants to be attractive as in people wanting to talk with him. He knows writing well will make this happen because he has seen Stephen King interviews on television. Stephen’s written words are wonderful, but if his personality were a person, it would live alone and drink stale coffee from a stolen mug. Noah thinks people listen to Stephen hoping that his personality will take a nap and his craft-spirit will surface and something profound will happen. The thing Noah wants to write well, above all else, is the suicide note he keeps in his head. For inspiration, he reads other people’s suicide notes. These aren’t easy to come by, because families, for some reason, don’t publish them. He makes contacts among the employees at free clinics and suicide hot-lines. When they appreciate he is curious from a literary standpoint, and not just being some kind of creepy jerk, they let him read the notes they’ve gathered over the years. Some are courageous, many are the usual moaning tomes against “the pain of this world”, and the majority have an apology somewhere. He notices that, strangely, none include the method. There is no poetry of process. Nobody writes: “I will hear the bullet sing as it races to kiss me…” or: “The red pills shall dance, summoning Morpheus.” or: “The blade is the key to the Creator.” Noah is determined that his note will be written with a good pen on fine paper, will explain everything in detail, be lauded for its’ clarity, cover ambiguous irregularities, and be studied in writing classes. He just needs a reason.