I Am Disabused Of All Faith, And

The Abstract Kills, The Concrete Saves.

I Woke To The Sound Of Rain.

I Felt My Lungs Inflate With The Onrush Of Scenery—air, Mountains, Trees, People. I Thought, "this Is What It Is To Be Happy.

I Took A Deep Breath And Listened To The Old Bray Of My Heart. I Am. I Am. I Am.

Dying Is An Art, Like Everything Else. I Do It Exceptionally Well.