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But silence was complicity, and you were only as sick as your secrets.
What if secrets were a cancer? What if you cut away the cancer and there was nothing healthy left?
The sound of the water was a reminder that rivers never stopped, wind never ceased, and despite this horror or the next, no matter who died or when, the sun would always rise and set.
They hadn’t spoken in the car, not wanting to move on from the Birches’ misery quite so quickly. Instead, they’d sat in the moment, giving solemnity its due and bracing for the next hard thing.
But there was more to living than surviving. Clocks continued to tick even though they didn’t keep accurate time. Sometimes people walked, talked, breathed, and ate and could still be gone.
She’d heard so many outright lies and shaded half-truths in her career. Everybody lied about something, even to themselves.
Trust but verify was somehow safer, cleaner. It protected the soul and the heart.
Art was humanity in reflection. It was invention and God spark, both expression and divination.
