Another entry from Jo Sullivan's journal.
In the cubicle next to me, I can hear Ed Logan clicking away at his terminal in a frantic race to meet the 2:30 deadline. I turned in my stories over an hour ago. My vision is fogged from fatigue. The springs in my desk chair creak like an old woman’s bones groaning for mercy. And yet I still can’t let go of this project spread out in front of me.
It’s a series for my Street Stories column that focuses only on homeless teens from the past. Did they evolve into homeless adults or did they make it out somehow? How many of them are even still alive?
I’ve been scanning microfilm in my sleep every night. When I look in the mirror every morning the circles under my eyes remind me of kids shooting dope and smoking crack. When I see teens hanging out on street corners I wonder if they have a place to sleep at night. When I glimpse kids riding school buses I wonder if they know how lucky they are.
Obsessed much? Damn right I am, but I don’t have time to worry about that. And besides, I’m writing some damn good stories.