Sometimes I realize that I don't know what I'm doing with my life. Most of the time when that happens I just try to stuff the thought back down my throat and tuck it behind my liver where it belongs. Other times I let the thought swirl around in front of my eyes, and after a while it airs out and stops smelling so much like bile. Other times I imagine an envelope floating directly over my head that's addressed to me and has all the answers and someday I'll tear open its paper lips and my wrinkled fingers will tremble as they unfold the letter and read the strange writing:
"Dear Mr. Turner,
This letter is empty because you already know everything that's going to happen to you because your life is over now.
Love,
Death"
And then I'll wonder where Death learned to speak English, and die.
