dying…one ushered teardrop at a time.
Reflecting on how I got here is a constant preoccupation of mine. I think of all the missteps, just small altered changes in common minutes, minutes that seemed to linger in nothing of importance. The tracks are traceable, sort of, but I can’t retrace them. It’s not possible to go back in time-only to reflect on time and panic about how you got here, in this place, this absurd, horribly disturbing place.