It's only a sure defeat when you stop trying.

It's only a sure defeat when you stop trying.

We stand a professional distance apart, as if I can’t feel his pain screaming in my head. Mine amplifies his; they share a joint sound—that of glass breaking—until they swell to a crescendo that deafens.

I shake my head, but I can’t change this. I can only bear the scars, as I have always done, as I ever do.

Sometimes the past needed to stay buried; it was the only way you could move on. And sometimes you had to dig it up, because that too was the only way.

His face held a certain impassivity; you see it in all waiters and valets. They might want to jam a knife through your left eye socket, but you'd never know it from their expression. Working retail, I've acquired a similar look myself.

Beautiful. And ugly. The world is always both.