Before my brother died I trusted man and medicine, science and doctors, maybe even God. But now that he's gone, I can't even trust myself to write words that mean a thing at the end of the day.
Death has a way of putting our words in perspective.
Listen, it's a beautiful thing when distilled to its essence; reduced to its purest form. A paradox and a paradigm; a paragon of perfection. Epic in its arythmetic progression; poetic. Like Chinese arithmetic, so hard it hurts. Yet soft and exquisite, like a bubble of love caught in a beating heart. That place where poetry starts.