So do we pass the ghosts that haunt us later in our lives; they sit undramatically by the roadside like poor beggars, and we see them only from the corners of our eyes, if we see them at all. The idea that they have been waiting there for us rarely crosses our minds. Yet they do wait, and when we have passed, they gather up their bundles of memory and fall in behind, treading in our footsteps and catching up, little by little.

We each owe a death, there are no exceptions, I know that, but sometimes, oh God, the Green Mile is so long.

I write to find out what I think.

Formula: Second Draft = First Draft minus 10%.

He had been (Thinking? Praying?) It was all the same thing.

He's a very nice man and all that, easy to get along with, fun, he never makes me cry. But is that love? I mean, is that all there is to it? Even when you learned to ride your two-wheeler, you had to fall off a few times and scrape both knees. Call it a rite of passage. And that was just a little thing.

And this wasn’t lying, not really. It was leaving out.