I’m having a hard time gathering my thoughts onto a single page. An avalanche of dialogue rushes from my fingertips with no clear origin. Once stated that my stories started off as a voice in my head, a character willing me to tell his story. Now all the voices have joined in raising their volumes, talking over each other into a cacophonous symphony orchestrated by first-time players of instruments in some back alley dive where drunkards and the sophisticated share shark stories. I am their vessel, unable to take orders because the tales of rotten childhoods and abortions no longer land the way they once did ten years ago when that world seemed more familiar than my own. Each passing day, the voices grow…