There is something that you must acknowledge first
to understand and to appreciate the rest:
humans do not need, or even want perfection.
We are happy with the ninety-nine percents, and
more than happy: we are thrilled because
we, ourselves, are so imperfect and
we, our souls, are so imperfect that
soulessness no longer seems so bad.
So lame and unawakened
we jostle for space
on the edge of the chasm,
talking to mirrors.
“You ready man?” I was still pulling on my boots at 7:58 when Danny told me that he was circling the block nearby, ready pick me up for breakfast. I made a point of calling him before the hour, certain that I would hear about it if I was
I gave up on sleep at about 7:30 AM, having been awake since 4:00 unable to shake my anxiety about another day of trial and failure. The hotel told me the night before that I couldn't extend my stay, so I lay there trying to figure
Winter frost had just come to Decatur, and our breath steamed as we walked down the middle of West Benson. Like most weeknights in Oakhurst the residential streets were empty, lined with cars under pools of yellow street light. "Why don't we duh-do it in the road.
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