Vicarious living is only slightly less impossible than vicarious eating.

My noisy denunciation trails off in doubt.

Music dissolves the straight and narrow.

My mother's mild-eyed sadness looks at me from the eyes of those I love.

My secrets are petty but humiliating.

Proverbial wisdom counsels against risk and change. But sitting ducks fare worst of all.

Doubt is long-winded. Certainty is brief.