You Can't Teach An Ear,

We Were At Another Funeral Party. I Wasn’t Sure Who Had Died This Time, But It Was A Suicide, And Upsetting Because It Was Completely Out Of Season. No On Killed Themselves In Summertime. It Was Rude.

There Is Never A Sudden Revelation, A Complete And Tidy Explanation For Why It Happened, Or Why It Ends, Or Why Or Who You Are. You Want One And I Want One, But There Isn't One. It Comes In Bits And Pieces, And You Stitch Them Together Wherever They Fit, And When You Are Done You Hold Yourself Up, And Still There Are Holes And You Are A Rag Doll, Invented, Imperfect. And Yet You Are All That You Have, So You Must Be Enough. There Is No Other Way.

In Our Absence, The Violet Early Evening Light Pours In The Bay Window, Filling The Still Room Like Water Poured Into A Glass. The Glass Is Delicate. The Thin, Tight Surface Of The Liquid Light Trembles. But It Does Not Break. Time Does Not Pass. Not Yet.

For Me, The First Sign Of Oncoming Madness Is That I'm Unable To Write.

I Do Have Faith. I Don't Have Faith That A God Exists, Nor Do I Have Faith That One Does Not; I Have Absolute Faith That I Do Not Know, Cannot Know, Am Only Human, Am An Infinitesimal Creature Packed Onto A Cramped Planet Crowded With Seven Billion Bodies, And As Many Yearning Hearts, And As Many Questioning Minds.