At its essence, this story is about existential amnesia. What do we need to remember? What do we want to remember? And what’s the difference between them?
No matter how much paper we push around in this life, or the next, or inside the crumbling filing systems of our own minds, the termites are coming for us all.
In retrospect, it’s obvious to me that I’m writing about my desire to feel a part of something greater than myself. I know that’s an impossibility, however.
All-American Murder isn’t bad, but it’s almost an extraterrestrial product, a movie made for humans by something that has no relationship to the physical universe.
I'm still thinking through and discovering all Seinfeld has, and will, teach me about creative writing, particularly poetic movement, and/or MacGuffins as a narrative technique.