Today, ten thousand people will die and their small replacements will bring joy and this will make sense to someone removed from any sense of loss. I, too, will die a little and carry on, doing some paperwork, driving myself home. The sky is simply overcast, nothing is any less than it was yesterday or the day before. In short, there's no reason or every reason why I'm choosing to think of this now. The short-lived holiness true lovers know, making them unaccountable except to spirit and themselvessuddenly I want to be that insufferable and selfish, that sharpened and tuned. I'm going to think of what it means to be an animal crossing a highway, to be a human without a useful prayer setting off on one of those journeys we humans take. I don't expect anything to change. I just want to be filled up a little more with what exists, tipped toward the laughter which understands I'm nothing and all there is. By evening, the promised storm will arrive. A few in small boats will be taken by surprise. There will be survivors, and even they will die.