Call me. Write me. I want to hear from you. I want to sit back and envelop myself in your life. In your voice. I want your ears to hear your story and I want the confidence that it is true to drive you forward in the telling. I want every fiber of your body to be focused on the tail and when it is over you will feel that you have prose and wit. I want you to see as much value in your life as would make death a tragedy.
Death like a glove to a hand is the unthematic ending of us. It is all in all climatic and an unfitting ending. The narratives of our lives are nothing like proper storie3s. there are no starts and stops and proper introductions and fantastically climbing action except that we make it. Our minds paint our stories. Give the starts, the stops, the commercial breaks and every ending is different and up to us to find.
We come together with those that play a part in our many stories. The romances that bring two people together make twenty people new familiars. They are all different and alien. They have a version of us before we understood perception. Before we understood how to act. The version of ourselves that knew every story was an idea and every protagonist moral.
Try to be honest about yourself but friendly about their cooking.