The end of February, a garbage truck is backing up outside my window. nFour years ago my father died, that's more than a thousand days. nEmily is across from me, her head cocked like a curious dog. nShe's muttering lines from an upcoming show, broken into jazz standards. nSomething about Baby leaving and Never coming back.nnWhere are you in the winter when I need some comradery? nI'm dissapointed about my job. nIt's definately not what I envisioned. nEmily is staring out the window, the three armed lamp is out one bulb. nI hear you are travelling around towns I can't pronounce. nYou know, I used to live in them! nNow I must get some rest.nnAll the good symptoms of art will always bring some restlessness. nIn the Februaries of my late twenties and, I suppose, my thirties.