Izzy is a good man. He sees himself as a good man. What he contributes to the household makes him proud. He's a good son.
His father, (who Izzy, "lives with") is the opposing force-field, setting up barriers. Izzy walks a fine line, each day, looking for the next land-mine, under foot. (maybe, being alone, like his father, is his fate, Izzy ponders; his thoughts, running freely on a rainy day.)
He thinks, "What happened to my life. I used to be in love." There's a cat moaning outside his window, and it's Springtime.
Izzy is still learning, still growing up. "You're never too old to learn something new," his father says to him.
Izzy B. is tall and slim. He seems to have been born slim, and was a lanky adolescent, sitting on the sidelines, while the other boys and girls ran about, playing games. He has a heart condition, wears glasses, and is shunned by his peers. (There are days when he feels so low, the thought of ending his life intrudes his otherwise rambling thoughts. He never follows-through, with self-destruction. He'll march on, regardless.)
What Izzy needs is work; an honest days labor.
Lately, he has been fearful of work, feeling he wouldn't measure up, that it'd be too much for him. The ash-pit of depression is too close, too much with him.
Izzy asks, Who am I?
He hasn't found the answer yet.
And so, what would Izzy write about himself, if he'd ever write about himself??
That, my friends, is for another day.