Were I but footprints in the sand, washed
away with coming the tide, from your memory.
If only I could disappear so easily as I hide
from your view, to forget or forgive
myself for being. A wish, to be forgotten.
Penguin collector: still keep the wounded...
Born March 19, during the biggest snow storm as of then, my birthday is always in winter on the cusp of spring — an accurate reflection of how I live and experience life; a smile as today means yesterday is over; lucky and blessed by opportunities, by my son and my daughter, by my remaining 17 year old dog, Princess, who lives with me; a pragmatic pessimist — noting how flourishing is unlikely given how I am and despite who I am— it's a choice to be alone, to be safe, to minimize pain, and as a kindness to those I love; repulsed by my behavior and more so by remorselessness of hate and hurtful actions by people with decent values, by the incomprehensible innate contradictions of people, and by how clearly kindness is a devalued asset