For Once I’m not Writing for Money

There’s an awful lot that happens. Again, The Order of Time, it feels like a lot when it’s happening but not much at all once it’s gone, crumpled and put into the pile with all the other rough drafts of days. This way I hit publish, this way I place the dots on a timeline, this way I can look back and flip through or search the index or somehow manage to hang on to the enormity of the year. This really has been a year, I don’t think people, or myself, are ready to accept that. How do we accept what just happened, mountains of bodies, our friends.