Light Fiction

For some reason I tend to think of life as basically a hopeful place. Like, as long as you’re there, there is some chance of things being fundamentally OK. Like life is where we are and that it’s looking at us as though to say “yeah.” Like, if you look around you’ll notice all the beautiful little hints spread around with an air of beneficence. Like life is just. . . .you know?

For some reason I am mad and punch Life in the face. Then I realize that Life is in fact the Vast Acting Living Intelligent Sum of our identities, and that we’re real shits.