We will build this house with glass, all of the houses, a city made of glass. Glass walls, glass ceiling, and streets paved with glass. Then we will encase our city with a dome of glass. It will be beautiful, ethereal. Who, I wonder, will be the first to throw a stone?
The bullets don’t especially frighten me, but the years do. To fade away through all of the Februarys and the Julys, the wounds worsening and the aches spiraling up until decrepitude rules my days? A horror. Better the bullets. Better the lightning strike, the avalanche, the plane crash. Death is no enemy to me, but life sometimes is.