I flash him number seventeen of my thirty-five Looks of Death.

Oooh! Stop that. When you smile at me I want all of it." "What?" He looked confused

I said breathe. Not do a fish-out of-water imitation.

Time heals. No, it doesn't. At best, time is the great leveler, sweeping us all into coffins. We find ways to distract ourselves from the pain. Time is neither scalpel nor bandage. It is indifferent. Scar tissue is not a good thing. It is merely the wound's other face.

Being nearly naked around Barrons felt a lot like going to a shark convention lightly basted in blood.

I contemplate the notion that maybe regrets are a process of accumulation of time, as unavoidable as a closet full of clothes and more bags of them in the attic. Is accumulated baggage what makes people get old? If so, they need to clean out their fecking attics, send the stuff to consignment shops and remember how to walk around naked like kids, little bellies sticking out, always ready for a good laugh.

There aren't many sins in my bible. Giving up is the greatest one of all.