Why all the writing? Shawna asked you this once, near the beginning. You were sitting on the floor with your notebooks spread around, your hands stained black with ink. It’s the only way to be permanent, you told her. It’s like I’m leaving a piece of myself behind. What exactly are you trying to leave? Shawna asked. I don’t know, you said, irritated. My thoughts. My beliefs. Don’t you think it’s important to know that something of yourself exists beyond your own body? Something that can outlive death? Shawna only shrugged and said: I think some people have left enough already.
