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“Mac.”
He, who had once been whole, was halved, without hope of ever being complete again. And when you’ve known that kind of love, to endure the creeping passage of time without it is to live a half-life where nothing ever feels real.
“Bloody hell,
BB&B is four stories most days but other days five, and on rare occasions lately, seven.
Tuesday the mural on the ceiling was roughly seventy feet above my head, today it seems a quarter mile, minuscule in the distance. The harder I try to focus on it, the more difficult it is to see. I don’t understand why anyone would paint such a blurry scene on the ceiling. I used to ask Barrons about it but never got an answer. One day I’ll hunt down construction scaffolds so I can lie on my back beneath it and figure out what the darn thing is.
She has suffered the worst the world has to offer. And thrived.
“What the fuck, Mac?”
