Whatever The Future May Bring
Life is a wound that never closes, and we are the clumsy fingers that keep picking at it, convinced that this time—this time—we'll find the thread that pulls it all together. We won't. The thread doesn't exist. The wound is the whole thing. And yet. We make coffee. We water plants. We kiss cold floors and call them home. Not because we're brave, but because the alternative is boring, and spite is a surprisingly durable fuel. The universe is indifferent, but you are not. That's the joke. That's the miracle. That's the only reason any of us are still here—stubborn, stupid, and refusing to look away from the mess we've made. Tis enough. Tis more than enough. Tis everything. — Deia. The van hummed through the Seattle grey like a mechanical whale singing songs of poor fuel efficiency
- Writer
