#1

Once more, I have met my Penelope, and I lay here—a suitor waiting to be slain.

Oh, weary, weary eyes. I've seen this place a million times.

Here's a song, sung by a man on this day of Saint Valentine—he hums softly this one note, perfectly tuned.

Here's a story about a man—just like you, or he, or me—a story told on this day of Saint Valentine. He will tell it earnestly, in such a way that you cannot say that he held back his tongue. He will start from the beginning, from the day he ventured forth from the courtyard of his house, onward to his Ithaca, onward to the place of his absent king. And when he ends, it will be the day of his tender death, a codling struck down by the vengeful arrow—you will hear his last words, as he slowly drowns, drowns, drowns in that blood that once nurtured him in his mother's womb.

He tells it so, in the foggy hope that you might glimpse his dreams, and in so doing, say, "Alas, Eurymachus. I too know the story of unrequited love."

—Eurymachus, February 14, 2003