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“Kinderlach, when you’re on a mountain, never take the easy way down. Always make your way up.”

The shrieks arise from all sides, as we, strangers all of us, jump in a completely unrehearsed, perfectly synchronized dance of dread. It’s an instinctive scream, helpless in its futility.

The distance eats away at me. I feel unmoored, floating. My best friend is in pain, and I’m hiding

I wait. I wait for the birth pangs, I wait for the mourning. But both are slow in coming

I kept those words in a special place, as a sign of a prophecy that would hopefully come true

Eight thirty. It was really too late to start putting up a dough