If you are to stay with a piece of everyone you have ever known, then I suggest it be their hands. Good pilgrims have soft palms, and their prayers are always granted. Who needs a rabbit’s foot, when we are all born barber-surgeons?
When a really terrible song is played on the radio, and the reaction is one of unmeasured anger, I think about how much blame should be placed on a diseased mind, and how maybe it is just time to admit that I am an entitled brat of a child. I walk onward with my nose in the air, barely supported by my cruelty-free fed, crooked legs. Though it appears life rattles through my bones, the hollow tells me a different story. I believe what I want. I believe what is easiest to comprehend. I believe what allows me to opt for the path that takes the least amount of effort.
All my dreams are now of the house I grew up in. Wretched, haunted, cold shell. All of my thoughts are now of my father, who is always ill. And I care in all the ways he was never able.