That's typically what writers do; we just sit around complaining most of the time. And the better things are going, the more they complain.

There were stars. They burned my eyes.

Shadows of cloud lurked in the water, like holes the sun forgot about.

I'm just another stupid human.

The conversation of bullets.

How'd it feel?" Rube asked himself. "I don't know exactly, but it made me want to howl.

Yes, I'm often reminded of her, and in one of my array of pockets, I have kept her story to retell. It is one of the small legion I carry, each one extraordinary in its own right. Each one an attempt - an immense leap of an attempt - to prove to me that you, and your human existence, are worth it.