There’s a rule against having someone pull out a gun in a short story, and there’s probably one too about ending a poem with “And then they died,” but today the light is sharp, and I’m alone (save a GIANT diet pepsi). Eva and I walked four blocks with me trying to think of the word nostalgia but all I could think of was the word nostalgia. It’s like nostalgia, I said, but it’s not. I remember so distinctly the first time I felt nostalgic. It was 2003. I was walking up University Place and the weather had just started to turn cold. The feeling was so sharp and deep and real, and when I arrived at the building I was walking to I went in, and I told people. I said, I just experienced nostalgia for the first time. I think people shrugged or didn’t listen. Maybe someone said, Oh. A dozen years later, walking those blocks with Eva, I thought I was all wrong about the word. I thought: this can’t be nostalgia because I feel that all the time; there has to be something more intense, but it was just nostalgia. One day, I’ll try to reach out to you, and someone will have to tell me that you’re dead.