10.	stillborn
	Josh, Mike and I around the table, looking at Noblesville-- the phallic clocktower of the courthouse taunting the sky-- eating Hunan Chicken and playing guitars, non-concurrently. We throw together a set list for the one show we'll play and I hate myself quietly for not giving these men more time to meld together like rice in the shape of the takeout box. We believe we would have a chance were I not moving soon, 500 miles away and leaving a band stillborn. Now, a fortune cookie, like an ex-girlfriend, taunting me: You are capable, competent, creative, and caring. Prove it. Guilt stirs inside like an unexpected child.
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