My third night in a row thinks it should never really have happened but is thankful it did. Everything feels wrong and right and deadly.
What makes sense now? I don't know what to expect from work, from the family, from dreams sketched hastily at the back of unlined notebooks. And yet none of that matters. There is only asphalt and feet and a simple decision that should do wonders for a soul that had lost faith in itself and in the world.
Pure and full and black and white. Here in this world there is no try, there is do and not do. A curse, a blessing, that thin line that is actually a universe—three universes, even!—apart, the porous, scalable, absolute-ness of actually doing something versus just thinking about it.
How close we are to utter destruction every time we fail to try.
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