Job applications litter the floor.  The debris hardly draws my attention when I walk into my room these days.  I don't bother picking it up, because the half finished forms are an open testament to my life, the cast-off clothing of a furious love affair.  If I were to pick up one of the crumpled papers from the flotsam and sniff the drying ink, which gives off a hopeful scent like face powder, I might collapse onto my bed with an eruption of exasperation and useless emotion. 
    Every few days I get emails, slow responses to the editing jobs I had applied to while in Boston.  Each one apologizes for not getting back to me sooner.  Each one thanks me for applying.  Each one admits shock at the number of inquiring candidates they were faced with and encourages me to continue my interest in their company.  By the end of each email, I am left wondering at which point they told me that I wasn't getting hired.  I suppose it was implied with the obvious ommission of "Congratulations!"  Still, they seem so cowardly for not stating it overtly.