The universe has been generous enough to offer you the opportunity to fail—utterly—yet again, and you have predictably accepted without a moment of hesitation or gratitude, or even being aware of it.

The sole perspective that I may have, that you may not have, in your privileged existence, is of time.

In the space of a few months your hair and clothing begin to fall awkwardly on you—or maybe you just begin to notice.

Figuratively speaking, he hit the windshield.
Figuratively speaking, it took weeks to clean him off.

The ninth month of the pandemic brought daily, unannounced weeping, an involuntary physical impulse that felt part of some collective global balancing, almost like—
A rice cooker letting off steam?
No, that’s fucking stupid. *Coughs. But maybe.
A volcano? A cat purring?
Plunging your eczematic hands into a bubbling vat of lye?
Yes, yes, that too.

Parked in front of a liquor store, a  song comes on and you find yourself sobbing. One of your grandfathers was maudlin, the other erratic and violent. You’ve always oscillated between the two, but lately there’s been little in-between.

Increasingly, he’d been thinking about simplifying his life.
Increasingly, he’d been thinking about drinking.

He’d often had the feeling people were laughing at him, and finally understood why.

Twenty years ago a stranger stopped you on the street and said “Some day you, too, will look like Dylan Thomas.” You thought of it often over the years, but less and less. Now, looking in the mirror, you get it. Not Dylan Thomas, exactly, but someone equally unrecognizable to your inner, younger self.

Zoom out, insignificant. Zoom in, grotesque.

Driving back, you remember the hopeful innocent you were just a week ago, still on your way. 

This person is part of the person that was that person. You don’t get to choose the part that’s convenient.

Things to avoid: mirrors, clocks.