Why is taste, the crudest of our senses, exempted from the ethical rules that govern our other senses?

It can be challenge enough to have to eat with myself.

Some make their worlds without knowing it. Their universes are just sesame seeds and three-day weekends and dial tones and skinned knees and physics and driftwood and emerald earrings and books dropped in bathtubs and holes in guitars and plastic and empathy and hardwood and heavy water and high black stockings and the history of the Vikings and brass and obsolescence and burnt hair and collapsed souffles and the impossibility of not falling in love in an art museum with the person standing next to you looking at the same painting and all the other things that just happen and are.

I put my hand on the doorknob because I thought maybe her hand was on the doorknob on the other side.

The question, I've come to think, is not what inspires one to change, but what inspires one to remain changed.

Grandfather informs me that is not possible.

It's true, I am afraid of dying. I am afraid of the world moving forward without me, of my absence going unnoticed, or worse, being some natural force propelling life on. Is it selfish? Am I such a bad person for dreaming of a world that ends when I do? I don't mean the world ending with respect to me, but every set of eyes closing with mine.