Everything I’m writing has been short recently.
I don’t like to write endings. I’m bad at them.
Endings must have a stake in what happened,
and I’ve never been interested in what happened.
Where have we been? Endings ask.
Where must we go from here? They answer.
Some people, lucky ones, can only write endings—
as if forever in state of taking stock and gazing out,
as if to fall, to fear, these things could go on
indefinitely, as if shadow were just another word for shade.