You and me, we’re not people of note: no paper space to devote to us, no matter how devious our plans that we’ve written with our hands across our mouths. You and me, we are people of doubt. Now, I don’t mean we wonder what it’s all about. Someone already figured that one out: the west lived without zero for a while, but now it’s here, the equal and antithesis of fear.

If I checked for cancer every day, I would still find it anyway.

You and me will die, and I know it’s me first. For what I lack I know I’ve been immersed in an ill that will see to me before it sees to you. It’s perverse, but I would be there at my own wake, to hear your words, with my dead mind and for my dead mind’s sake.

You and me, we’re tired of drawing our own breath, but as we heave allow me to digress: my hand, in yours, is enough to make the whole world pause.