Life is made up of a series of moments, each one a journey to the end.

Adam strokes my head, my face, he kisses my tears. We are blessed. Let them all go. The sound of a bird flying low across the garden. Then nothing. Nothing. A cloud passes. Nothing again. Light falls through the window, falls onto me, into me. Moments. All gathering towards this one.

Like a tree losing its leaves. I forget even the thing I was thinking.

Every breath, every heartbeat, was one less until maybe things stopped hurting this much.

I want the people I love to get up and speak about me, and even if you cry it'll be OK. I want you to say honest things.

I'm me and you're you, and all of them out there are them. And we're all so different and equally unimportant.

We make patterns, we share moments.