There is a shock that comes so quickly and strikes so deep that the blow is internalized even before the skin feels it. The strike must first reach bone marrow, then ascend slowly to the brain where the slowpoke intellect records the deed.
Music was my refuge. I could crawl into the spaces between the notes and curl my back to loneliness.
Death to the young is more than that undiscovered country; despite its inevitability, it is a place having reality only in song or in other people’s grief.
But the true nature of the human heart is as whimsical as spring weather. All signals may aim toward a fall of rain when suddenly the skies will clear.