It was the summer I wanted to swallow –
swallow a bullet from my father's hunting rifle.
This was anything but ordinary, but the feeling
had somehow become commonplace in my thoughts.
It's strikingly alarming to be aware of how much
you're alive when you want to be dead.
Like there's some unnatural force in the background
that keeps buzzing underneath your skin, something
that creeps into your mind and turns everything grey.