My father took one hundred and thirty-two minutes to die. I counted. It happened on the Jellicoe Road. The prettiest road I’d ever seen, where trees made breezy canopies like a tunnel to Shangri-La. We were going to the ocean, hundreds of miles away, because I wanted to see the ocean and my father said that it was about time the four of us made that journey. I remember asking, 'What’s the difference between a trip and a journey?' and my father said, 'Narnie, my love, when we get there, you’ll understand,' and that was the last thing he ever said.

I need voices of reason and of hysteria and of empathy. I need to have an Alanis moment. I need advice from Elizabeth Bennett. I need Tim Tams and comfort food.

And life goes on, which seems kind of strange and cruel when you're watching someone die.

Why do I feel like something's missing in my life without them and they don't feel the same about me?

Then I choose to drown. In hope. Rather than float into nothing.

I'm sick and tired of you people living interstate and overseas from people you want to be with. You're ruining my life! All of you!

Even five minutes of your time can make someone's day.