Death, like fiction, is brutal in its symmetry. Take this story and strip it down -all the way back-until you are left with two points. Two dots on a vast, blank canvas, separated by a sea of white. Here, we have come to the first point, where the bat is drawn, and the hand is reaching for the razor blade. I will meet you at the next, by the axle of a screaming wheel, the revolution of a clock, the closing of an orbit.

Sad Girls