What if I died right now? What if I just...died? No sons or daughters or love of my life. Or what if while driving to the community college tutoring lab with the radio turned on softly and the sunroof cracked only halfway, I just slumped over and flew off a bridge or something? Would that make sense? There has always been this thing with my hands and things. Every time I look at my hands, they say whatever it is that the rest of my body could not bring itself to. They are the most telling thing about me. And now when I look at my hands on the keys, the numb tired pulse of blood, I think, "That would make sense. Yeah, that would make sense." My hands...divorced from purpose.

This illogical conclusion hovers, instead of love, like a vulture over my wasted mind and settles like bags of sand on my shoulders and throat and chest and stomach. And I'll just sleep again with my neck craned uncomfortably on my pillow until the morning reminds me of what I knew I could not forget:

Selfishness, when it comes to this, is not gratifying.

Good night.