Life is short, though I keep this from my children.



Life is short, and I’ve shortened mine



in a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways,



a thousand deliciously ill-advised ways



I’ll keep from my children. The world is at least



fifty percent terrible, and that’s a conservative



estimate, though I keep this from my children.



For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird.



For every loved child, a child broken, bagged,



sunk in a lake. Life is short and the world



is at least half terrible, and for every kind



stranger, there is one who would break you,



though I keep this from my children. I am trying



to sell them the world. Any decent realtor,



walking you through a real shithole, chirps on



about good bones: This place could be beautiful,



right? You could make this place beautiful.









