One list.

Men make lists. Some men work their lists down. Some men wish they could work their lists down. But all men make lists. Then there is me and the likes of me. Who make and unmake lists all the time. Schizophrenic in our desires, we live for the opportunity to revise, amend, alter, change, modify, improve - we love the thesaurus - our lists. Constantly. Attentively. With great concentration. Because in our heart of hearts, mine really, procrastination is elevated to an art form, sublime in its application, effective in its tawdry indolence. Except when we don't. 

Then all hell breaks lose and because a few among us take the brooding silence thing seriously - introverts, they call us - our minds are much quicker than our tongues and we cannot celebrate our outbreaks. Our lists. Things of beauty. Detailed where need be (things, etc.) and seductively vague where necessary (She, doesn't need certain details).

This is one list.

Rubicon.

Three Days of the Condor.

Life.

Conspiracy.

Sneakers.

Without context. Without a running, ruinous commentary. Just a list. Make of it what you must. Ignore it. Let it fester. Masticate in rumination. It's short. Monastic, even. But it is the result of years of refinement, teasing out the magic ingredients. You don't have to accept it. You don't have to like it. But you can't help but acknowledge it. A list. Not the list. Just one list.