Oh, I get it," I said. "It's a parable. Cute. Let's go eat.

Unless you can change the past, you’re wasting the present on this guilt

Words, words, words, a million million words circle in my head like hawks, waiting to dive onto the page to rend and tear the only two words I want to write. Why me?

Science, you don't know, looks like magic.

So Now You're Death: Here's What You'll Need

Routine feeds the illusion of safety.

There's a fine edge to new grief, it severs nerves, disconnects reality--there's mercy in a sharp blade. Only with time, as the edge wears, does the real ache begin.