"This letter is an admission of failure in all aspects. Nothing I ever do will ever be completed and all of my goals are schams. It is best to continue living for mere experience, because nothing can ever be accomplished. "

"Stew"

That's what she read on his bedside dresser twelve years ago. No body ever turned up. She never dared call the police; her and Stew weren't THAT serious. He must have family, or someone else to love; surely he's not dead. Yet Carly, the brown haired photographer, hoped and dreamed that one day Stew, the only man she cared for, would twist the doorknob and embrace her once again.

Til then she sits and moans. She has met other men, but life, it seems to her, has become a swirling vastness of defeat and crumbling ambition.

She picks up the phone every so often to call her younger sister. It results in a formulaic conversation that has plagued her family relationship for years. Nothing of consequence has ever happened to anyone, ever. Not now, not ever.