The following is a story about the lives of two young men. It was—or rather, will be—written between August 2015 and September 2016.
This will surely be where many readers, if there ever are any, will start. But, this is probably the worst place to start. Since, well since our story hasn’t actually been written yet. It may be that we—Sal and I, and I suppose also you and I, dear reader—will look back on this preface a year from now and realize how goddamn naïve it was. The idea of writing this in more-or-less real time is exciting to us and hopefully interesting, but it’ll probably be mostly just a mess. Unfortunately there isn't a damn thing that I can do about that now. All we can do is write forward, march on, and see where we end up.
Who are we? We're just two guys trying to live a story—hopefully a good story, but probably not.
We have no idea what the next year will hold for either of us. Big things, we hope. I like to think we’re both fairly interesting people, and hopefully we’ll live interesting lives, but neither of is really sure where we'll be a year from now. So, again I say, all we can do is write forward.
Here is where our story begins, with a letter written in a hotel room.