Now Is Not the Time to Panic

by Kevin Wilson

“The edge is a shantytown filled with gold seekers,”

“We are fugitives, and the law is skinny with hunger for us.”

There was this little voice in my head, and it was telling me what to write down. And I knew that this little voice, this tiny, insistent voice, was not God and it wasn’t some muse and it wasn’t anyone in the world except for me. This voice was my voice. This voice was my voice and no one else’s voice, and I could hear it so clearly. And it wasn’t finished.

And then the voice was gone. It went way, way back inside me. And I didn’t know if it would ever come back.

I thought that the saddest thing that could happen was that something inside your head worked so hard to make it into the world and then nothing happened.

He looked like he was one of two things: a man who made coffee tables from reclaimed driftwood and sold them for three grand, or a man who was very, very suspicious of the circumstances of 9/11.

wanted it just so that I could feel that thread that connected me to the past.