So here it begins, my novel, Imaginary Bebop.
Chapter 1 – ‘Round Midnight
“He’s a clown.”
But Irwin’s words couldn’t cut the clamor, the hundred mashed-up voices, the heat the smoke the bass and the funk, the song and the singer, the cigarettes the booze the blur and the blues. The bar killed the words, dead in his mouth.
“What?” said Will.
The beat shook spirals in Irwin’s scotch … his sixth.
“A clown, man. A sad clown,” Irwin howled.
Will shook his head.
They sat at the corner table, the one closest to the stage at the …

Epilogue
The police brought me to the station.  I was quiet, I was sad, and as I walked I stared only at my feet making slow steps. My hand still hurt, but the paramedic had bandaged and cleaned it well. It was sore but no longer dirty. The cuts on my forehead had also been cleaned and bandaged. They didn’t hurt.
Its hard to explain how far my imagination took me when I thought about that tick, and how it had burst on me.
I did look up and not to the ground …

Chapter 10
I was once again snared in the dirty claws of this day. I was confused and uncertain of myself. I lacked confidence as I began to wonder if I had ever had a thought of my own, something that came from me and wasn’t some bullshit rehashing of what everybody else already knew. Did I always have the gift? Were my thoughts someone else’s? And how could I think that? How could I earnestly believe that every thought I had ever had didn’t come from me? It was because …

Chapter 9
Breathe…
She sat, huddled and rocking, on the steps of the Bank of America, and I was across the street from her. She held her face in her hands as she cried. I don’t want it. I don’t want it. Hers was the only thought I had.
Fog fell onto the street, and the light from the streetlamp she sat next to launched a yellow beam that rested its glow around her. The light squirmed as she rocked and cried.
I knew her for myself, from my own intuition, from my heart. …

Chapter 8
It had become colder.
…..
I should just admit to myself that I don’t know everything, that everything’s not my fault…or even has to do with me at all. Maybe I don’t know anything. Every time I think something it changes. I keep getting hurt when I think I’m happy, and I always think I know why. Am I a detective or just another moron left to sift painfully through the coincidences of life? Have I ever solved anything, known anyone? Have I ever been in love? I don’t know. I …