Pascal had it right: the raw night’s a riptide; oceans of emptiness yawn in its wake. On the thermostat screen, black tarp punctured by
“My father once said…’you should wait till people are dead to tell stories like that.’ Now people are dead and I am telling stories
I practiced dying in front of the bathroom mirror, clutching my throat, or holding my gut where an assassin’s bullet lodged— my face a