captain sunbeam

...and I learned another thing, which is that just because someone is eating the ashes of your protagonist doesn't mean you stop telling the story.

There is a woman crying in the parking lot.

In the privacy of the bathroom, where he removed himself for a pause, he felt giddy, liberated and captive both. The bathroom was a confined space but he was hardly confined; nothing was tawdry to him, nothing filthy despite its superficial patina of dirt--or rather he forgave it for its tawdriness. The peeling stickers on the wall, graffiti, wet floors with patches of wet toilet paper adhering […]. All these elements were part of the story, the grounded earth before the flight. This was the instant of exulting, and even the grimy walls could not dull his exhilaration.   The room was a holding pen, a split moment. Outside the room was the rest of his existence. For years he had been detached and now in a stroke of time he was not. He would move, he would touch--no one would think to impede him, they would see him go and be glad--he could be anything. Do not embarrass yourself, he told himself strictly, but could not help smiling. There she was at the bar: their faces met before he got there.   This was how he lost his autonomy -- he had moved along at a steady pace and then he was flung.