I called Mutulu. I did not want to be alive any longer. I had a fellowship, but it did not pay enough to live. I had a small apartment, which was a sublet. I made one thousand dollars every other month. My rent was three hundred-fifty dollars. I would not be able to find a stand alone home for the same price.


My attention was always drawn towards the water height measuring legend. I would pay attention, even if it were not hurricane season. I took note of the fenced overpass and the walkway to the top. The railcars would sit for hours, days. It was different during the day. It was much more somber at night.


This is where I thought I would go prior to calling Mutulu. I never let the idea of being through leave the recesses of my mind. Heavier then, than they are now: my hands. I could not reach for the phone, but it made it to my hand. I did not think I could find the words, but they came.

I did not want to be homeless again. I did not want to be roommates again. I did not want to lie about how I was doing, again. I cried.

I could see it, though I could not know how I learned to tie a noose. I could feel it, though the rope never embraced my throat. I was already gone, though I could still feel my heart beating.


I thought I would spend my eternity at the bridge. I was engaged and we only needed to find a ring to wed us.

I visited and revisited the location. I documented it. I recorded and made short films about it. I took naps atop the hill, just behind the fence.

Then, suddenly, we were no longer in throes. We no longer had anything to say to each other. We no longer recognized each other as our paths crossed.


I once thought I would spend an eternity walking these grounds.