If Henry Miller gave him pause, Wakefield brought him to his knees, forever in supplication to the Universe, prayers for context, for meaning, or just someone to hear him, like he hears the songstress bleeding out in the background... "I just want a place to surrender all of the love inside of me" He met her once, in person, before the lights got so bright, the lingering glow of her music wrapt around her head like a halo, that southern charm and knowing he was the thing between her and that after-work beer, he thanked her sincerely for existing and faded back into the loneliness that her music would continue soothing for months to come. For him now, solitude - a dark room, the smoke, and her voice as he remembers someone else entirely, in hopes that he'll forget. Pictures of past lives, disposable connections, intuition & outsider status, the things you aren't supposed to say drive him to silence. Is he alone enough yet to write greatly?