The summer has come sprung open 20 years from inertia to bring about the prospect of death again because life imitates its worst parts stitching the wounds haphazardly, tyrannical eruption against the heart clotting the blood and setting restart.
My favorite traumas are the ones I can repeat as I restore the wound back to its rightful catastrophe while continuing to nourish the beast making sure it has plenty of new blood to spoil, spill, dissolve, rinse and repeat. Someday maybe death will not be my default as I daydream. Maybe I can conquer and not subsist morbidity in place of all the future chances or let it steal every decision I cannot bring myself to risk.
Then I start to realize either I can laugh or I can cry because I am going off script.