I'm skimming across the surface of my own history, moving fast, riding the melt beneath the blades, doing loops and spins, and when I take a high leap into the dark and come down thirty years later, I realize it is as Tim trying to save Timmy's life with a story.

A lot like yesterday, a lot like never.

The bad stuff never stops happening: it lives in its own dimension, replaying itself over and over.

Why do our politicians put warnings on cigarette packs and not on their own foreheads?

They carried all they could bear, and then some, including a silent awe for the terrible power of the things they carried.

There was the single abiding certainty that they would never be at a loss for things to carry.

The world shrieks and sinks talons into our hearts. This we call memory.