The end of February, a garbage truck is backing up outside my window.    Four years ago my father died, that's more than a thousand days.    Emily is across from me, her head cocked like a curious dog.    She's muttering lines from an upcoming show, broken into jazz standards.    Something about "Baby leaving" and "Never coming back."      Where are you in the winter when I need some comradery?    I'm dissapointed about my job.    It's definately not what I envisioned.    Emily is staring out the window, the three armed lamp is out one bulb.    I hear you are travelling around towns I can't pronounce.    You know, I used to live in them!    Now I must get some rest.      All the good symptoms of art will always bring some restlessness.    In the Februaries of my late twenties and, I suppose, my thirties.