Why is it each time I fall just short of death, hitting the ground with a bump, no matter how slight, I always look better for it? Why is it the morning after the storm before is always Summer’s brightest day, with each breath brushed with freshly cut grass? Is this life? Is the mere act of escaping death what it is to live? And why is my face a portrait unrotting? God’s fondness for irony remains intact. He wants me to be alone, but will not tell me why. He won’t let me love, but won’t let me die.

• This entry was posted on Wednesday, August 10th, 2005 at 12:00 am and is filed under 100 words. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.