When I was a kid I used to play a game in the backseat of my family’s Aerostar during long trips out west.  I’d look at every passing car and try to take a moment to imagine the inhabitants as independent people - that woman’s kids had left for college and she was finally leaving her hometown.  That man was bored in his marriage, and had an undiagnosed thyroid problem.
And the cars would pass by, each containing these universe, and the boundless enormity of being present for the human experience that constantly washes over us would start to feel overwhelming.  So you abstract - no more people, just red car, black car, passing telephone poles.  Truly intaking the amount of energy we continuously swim in is daunting, and I struggle with it.
But in moments of passing, that’s our duty. To temporarily shed the armored skin we’ve crafted, and be present. If this world is all that we have, then that moment of clarity, of focused composure, is our parting mortal blessing
> I’m not a superstitious man, I know there’s not a promised land, I know that we will never meet again
> So I’ll recall you in this bed, with incandescence overhead, be safe my friend, sincerely Katherine.

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