#65

most of the time, he had projects haphazardly thrown across the house. a broken stereo, purging itself on the living room table, obscure tools occupying chairs and stools, tired graphing paper labeled "blueprint ideas" crumpled near the trashcan.
prodigy. brilliant. genius. these words excited him as much as tying his shoelaces in the morning. they were dead by now. words that denote nothing.
potential. a word worth discovering.
like his crumpled papers, like his marriage, like the sonata he began 10 years ago... it was all unfinished.
for all his knowledge, a thought, an idea, had never taken him full force, left him rushing and gasping, left him sleepless with excitement.