Maybe one morning I’ll wake up and step outside of myself to look back at the old me lying dead among the sheets.

Do we spend most of our days trying to remember or to forget? Do we spend most of our time running towards or away from our lives?

Maybe everyone can live beyond what they're capable of.

I thought what if death is more like thinking, well, war is like the boss at your shoulder, constantly wanting more, wanting more, wanting more, and then that gave me the idea that Death is weary, he's fatigued, and he's haunted by what he sees humans do to each other because he's on hand for all of our great miseries.

I realize that nothing belongs to her anymore and she belongs to everything.

Even death has a heart.

And then there's the sickness I feel from looking at legs I can't touch, or at lips that don't smile at me. Or hips that don't reach for me. And hearts that don't beat for me.