How does a story begin?
Doesn’t every story come from another one?
Nothing can ever start anew, not now, not this late in the game.
It feels like all the stories have been written, and all the stories have been told.
Maybe there’s still one or two left in us… maybe there are more.
Let us have an overture then, a signifier of some beginning, beginning again, redoubling with a reprise, or an entr’acte. Somewhere a finale dangles in the future, somewhere another overture begins. May so often marks a beginning… and the month of May is a magical one indeed.
