When are you really done? Is it after three days when your phone stops ringing? Is it when you find the job of your dreams? Is it after you cook that meal to sheer gastronomical perfection? Is it when you move to the city of your dreams? Is it after you ripped up the letters? You know, the ones that are now cigarette-soaked top soil in Steuben Park? Or is it when you start cleaning again? Polishing, scrubbing, perfuming… Are you really done once you walk from 1st Avenue Loop up to to E. 60th, and back? Are you done when you start dancing in the underground platforms, waiting for the G at 4:07 AM? Are you done after you had a spontaneous intimate relationship with the toilet bowl after Mr. Bullit told you to go fuck yourself? Are you done after riding a bike with a crooked wheel down an overlooked street? Or when you find a soul mate on the dance floor? Are you done when you stop questioning your logic? Or when you let your emotions sift through you to silently salt the sidewalk? I love sibilance. Or are you done when you fill up a page? Or 10? Or 20? Or a book. Or a magazine. Or an obituary? Are you done because you’re supposed to be done? Or are you just treading water until the Unrequited pays another visit?