Welcome SPONSOR: Lottie Da Kids!!!

Oh My Goodness. This shop was difficult for me to sponsor because I wanted instead to just buy clothes for Ever!! Please take a moment to visit my new sponsor at LottieDa Kids. Her baby and children's clothing are seriously having a cute attack. The prints are so unique and the styles of dress so cute that it's the kind of pieces you hold onto for future kids or grandkids after your baby wears it. Look at the bumblebee print below-

And this umbrella dress? With the boots? Adore, adore.

Pop over and melt here

People In Your Neighborhood: ITUNES and Pacing the Panic Room Team Up to Fundraise for The Littlest Buddy

I've read Ryan's blog Pacing the Panic Room off and on since he first began, before his Littlest Buddy had the diagnosis of Smith Magenis Syndrome . Since then, Ryan's sweet faced step-son has received the baffling diagnosis that comes with very little information, hope or treatment. This album Do Fun Stuff is a response from a loving parent in the face of a brick wall placed in front of their child. This album is a big ole Monster coming through that brick wall to make a hole big enough for his Little Buddy and all kids like him to walk through. It's only 10$ on ITunes here and every cent goes toward research for this disease. Right now it's Number 1 on the kids chart- let's help keep it there!!!

Proof

Relationships are like sharks / you have to keep moving or they die
Life is a great big shark. Depression is the emptiness. Absence. It is not the sharp high Mozart
note of great pain it is the white noise Don DeLillo wrote an entire novel on. The line across the screen. The blank screen after the line. The empty eyes of a brain injured human being. The French say orgasm is a small death. I say depression is the small death that duplicates until it is the great white. Until is is the master of it's ocean. Until there is no more thrashing blood amputated arms stories of survival and triumphant reentry into the point of attack until all that is left is the sea lapping it's wounds and the holes where you were which are now just holes.

I dare you to speak with a seriously depressed person and tell them to
take a boat ride.
it always cheers me up.
well.

I think the closest I've come to hating people is when a serious triumph of mental fuckedness is attended to with boat rides and focusing on the positive. No one understands the inanity of American cheeriness like a depressed American. For every movie we make with Jennifer Aniston and Colgate smiles and face lifted happy endings the French or German or Chinese are making a film where adults have sex with saggy aroused breasts and baggy eyes and weep as they fall asleep before awaking to the moment of comfort of arms that love. Nothing can make me suicidal faster than an American romantic comedy and nothing is more comforting than life reflected the way it is. Why do you think it is people often seem so much better right before they kill themselves. They have figured out what everyone wants and they can supply it for a short time. Boat rides bleached teeth and a complete denial of all the hard hard work and pain that life holds next to it's pretty little tits.

In conclusion I am depressed but please do not tell me to A take a boat ride or B bleach my teeth or C finally do something about the bags under my eyes.

I would like to instead be reminded of the heaviness of this world, it's soul beating slow and steady but covered in the marks of a long life lived. Covered in scars and wound. I would like to be reminded that life is not a pleasure cruise or a vacation or a series of endless highs and acquisition of sex, otherwise we would all be permanently stuck on the movie set of American Pie. I would like to be reminded that this is the best time of my life, man. Because it is. Because I grew up with a brilliant and abusive father and my mother did the best she could. Because my sister was so damaged I haven't talked to or seen her in 7 long years. Because my childhood was one long choppy sea punctuated with sunbursts and ships on far with happy people waving my way who never saw my signs for help. Because my relationship with Mr. Curry is the deepest intimacy I can imagine having with any one human being without bordering on the pathologically codependant, and it still does anyhow. Because I have three children and one on the way who are too much for black typed words to represent. Because I am not in constant physical pain. Because I can get help. Because I can ask for help. Because I have 6 years of therapy and some intensive life workouts behind me. Because I'm not dying, starving, hurting anyone or unable to stop the immense suffering of someone I love.

Charts Prove: my life is awesome and I'm just too fucked up to feel it.

Proof:

my lola: singing oh oh it's magic / never believe it's not sooooo

my employer: yes i can advance you money from your next paycheck to help cover your rent

my mom: i can pick up the kids today

my husband: if you don't like the honey on your breasts, would you like me to just hold you?

my son: well. sometimes we have something positive to say and sometimes we don't say anything at all. the child is 16. let's give him a pass.

my other son: straight up sweet carry the groceries because your rib is hurt doing pushups

my dogs: noses on my lap in concern

my blog: readers who give a shit and do so with soft toilet paper

myself, to myself: that's enough now honey. you've been sad. now pick it up and dance. all you fly motherfuckers just get on out there and dance. dance i said
image Laurie Rosenwal

eight years old

Under Pressure

Every year at this time there is a change that begins with the sky and falls pressurized into my body, altering the cells. My brain shifts. I can hear the noticeable movement of fault lines. This year the fault lines seize. They are under pressure.

As September begins I am underground. I have no zoloft. I am in physical pain which lights anxiety as perfectly as match to flint. I am unsure if I will be able to keep my job. Tomorrow I go back to work after last week's rib refract and chiropractic adjustment, to see if this small tongue clicking sound like my body chastising itself will end up with a truncated rib, and disability. Disability which means half reduction income. Half reducted income during the exact same month our roomate has moved out. During the same week when Dakota's testing- this Tuesday- occurs, and we have saved money in a white crumpled envelope in our desk drawer to pay for this, money which now leaves a hole in our rent check. I have $24 dollars left after groceries, which I bought with extreme care. We are so fucked.

I go to work on my novel and look at the words and cry. I have nothing to say for my characters. I have no plot line for them to dance to. I have only the blinking stare of the computer and three years worth of work which has never brought me a penny and maybe never will. Still I have to write. I have to write. Not being able to write is like not being able to cum. I sit in the chair and stare at the blinking computer and press my fingers down harder as if the pressure will emit some signal my brain WRITE WRITE WRITE because not writing is hurting. Not writing is leaning forward for an hour and trying to write and crying in frustration because nothing happens. Nothing is said or done or thought. I love my novel and I cannot keep it alive. It sits there fading on life support while I breathe futile and heavy into it's mouth. No air comes. Nothing comes. I am too afraid to write because if I write and I cannot sell my words then the dream I hold onto to get me through all these years of poorpoorpoor will die and I do not allow myself to go there. I cannot write because I am depressed. Anxious. Fucked.

Lola and I played with her little fairy toys earlier. I kept my eyes on her shining face to restrain the overwhelming boredom. Yes, now she is giving you the magic honey potion and you can fly! Oh Lola. I hope I fake it just right.

I watch reality tv late at night and want to hit myself in the head with a hard object. The pointlessness of everything is magnified a million times in every show. Watching the bodies flail and fuck and humiliate every gift and opportunity given reaffirms depression. I change the channel. So and so is dead. A little girl is molested, and dead. I change the channel. Spend a hundred dollars or be fat forever. I change the channel. I turn off the tv. I try to read and the words mean. nothing. This is the anvil of fuckedness. It has dull eyes and a stupid tongue without taste buds and bursts into tears when it takes a shit and there is no toilet paper on the roll. The ugly tiny me rolls in self pity. My legs and ankles are swollen and hideous, my face is exhausted, I look old and not special and I don't care how many times Mr. Curry tells me I am beautiful I don't believe him at all. Hopefully I'll believe him next week, on Tuesday maybe. Let's shoot for that.

I cannot taste food. The chocolate wafer bars this afternoon lay on my tongue like cardboard. I need to eat and have no appetite, feel sick when I don't eat feel sick when I do. I lay in bed at night and hold my hands in a prayer vigil. The thought runs What are we going to do? As if I have the answer. As if asking will produce solution. And the thought runs What are we going to do? And I think of mothers whose children have cancer, who live in starvation, who cannot protect their children from elemental harm and still sweat pools between my breasts and my chest is tight in fear and the though screams What are we going to do? If we can't pay our rent. If we lose this house and have no money for a downpayment for a new rental.

We planned and it all fell through. We had a roomate and she left early. We had savings and they have been used. We had my job until November and I injured my rib and missed half my days of work. Now we have half of a paycheck coming on the seventh with half the money needed to make rent.

This is not a love story.

My Poem Out in the new DIAGRAM Magazine

and when you finally fly away i'll be hopin that i served you well

lovelovelovelovelovelove

Welcome SPONSOR: Olive and Willow

Please take a moment to visit my new sponsor, Olive and Willow! This charming little shop offers high quality and artistry- the owl charm necklace below is a perfect example. There are other animals too, and I'd be thrilled to get any of them as a gift or to give them as a gift. Olive and Willow sells art prints, clothing and accessories.

I want this print for Lola and Ever's room :)

I really love this little elephant, his feet tucked together as he sails away.

Olive and Willow is created by two young talented women artists and entrepreneurs. I love doing business with shops just like this, run by hard working and talented people trying to make a life out of a small business.

I've Been Downhearted Baby

listen to the song here

Mr. Curry and I in the car, he's driving, I'm coughing, coughing and then a hard pop to the left on my back upper side and I'm in pain. My hands fly out involuntarily, I cry out, grab stupidly at my side. Something's wrong, I've done something!

In the emergency room the woman asking the questions is tall, ungainly, thick makeup, happy to be brisk and busy and in charge, happy to be taking my information. She has a list of questions and those questions she takes very seriously, they are part of her job and her responsibility and she will ask them. I try to tell her something and she interrupts- Were you in a car accident? No, Mr. Curry says, I told you, we were driving in the car and- she interrupts again, Well did you fall? Mr. Curry looks at me. No, I say, holding my side, measuring my breaths, desperately trying not to cough, I did not fall. I was In. The. Car.

We sit next to an overweight woman in her late fifties who holds a cane next to her swollen feet and moans in short bursts. She is in pain, something with her hips, or spine. She is telling the woman next to her- a short Hispanic woman whose husband just died months ago of dementia and cancer- that even the morphine isn't working. The widow murmurs comfort and pats the fat knee. She leans over to the other woman's husband- You should tell them her pain is a nine. He goes to do so and the Hispanic woman sighs loudly. I miss my husband, she says, her face tight. He took care of me. We did everything together. He was my best friend. I miss him so much. Now the cane woman is patting her knee. She says Yes, that is how my husband and I are, what we have. We are always together. Her husband returns. I told them, he says dubiously.

Across the way from me an elderly woman in a wheel chair turns her incredibly sharp featured face toward Mr. Curry and I at the sound of my hacking cough. Somehow her skin has fallen away from her face in large soft white folds, but the sharp bones of nose and eye cavity and chin are in severe relief. She glares at us. Mr. Curry is angry. Look somewhere else, lady, he says under his tongue. My wife is sick, have some manners.

I rock in my chair, holding my side, occasionally coughing and letting the fistful of dagger wedged in my rib cage poke me. I try not to make noise but it is difficult.

This ER is crowded and old. The paint is peeling, the people by and large look exhausted by life, not just whatever current injuries they own or are trying to give away. A man comes in on Life Flight and I glimpse his bloody body strapped down on the gourney, head belted in place, hands at his side. I wince. I feel rude for having looked at him in one of the most important and difficult moments in his life. I wonder if he lived.

A mother brings in her teenage daughter, who rocks and holds her stomach. The mother pulls her daughter's hair down in a gentle, smooth motion over and over, cupping the fullness in her hand before returning again to the crown. The daughter leans toward the mother.

After two hours the pain in my side is slightly less. I sit up straighter, can breathe a bit easier. I think we should go, I tell Mr. Curry. It's not broken, I can tell. I just pulled a muscle, hurt a tendon, something. Mr. Curry calls my Mom. She concurs. They wanted me to have an XRay. It's perfectly safe, the orderly assured me, why, we give Cat Scans to pregnant ladies! I look at him and nod and pretend. I would like to say no that is not true, it is not perfectly safe, and the latest research shows Cat Scans are causing cancer at a much more concerning rate than doctors originally thought; I am too tired, in too much pain, it's too hard to talk without coughing. You should do it, he encourages me, his thin black mustache glistening with perspiration. Maybe you should, says Mr. Curry. He does not want anything to happen to me. He does not want me to be in pain. No, I shake my head, I don't think so.

We go home.

I don't sleep, all night, again, for the third night in a row. I am starting to hallucinate out of the corner of my eyes. I feel starkly bizarre, as if everyone can see the interior of my mind, turned inside out like a prolapsed uterus. Mr. Curry nurses me. He pulls out Lola's mattress and sleeps on it, pulled up next to the couch where I am, his hand reaching up and holding mine. Last night, everything worked, finally. I took at drug I had refused to take, and I finally slept. I woke at midnight coughing and in pain. After I changed my urine soaked underwear, controlled my cough, made warm water with honey and laid back down, I controlled my fear by looking at his face. After hours of sleep, His hand was still up on the couch, where mine had been. I controlled my fear by looking at his face, his hand. Finally I slept again.

In the ER my own pain scared me, because pain always scares me, because it is a dark harbinger of what life can bring, with much worse pain, much longer lasting, more nightmarish. For instance- our children. You see? I take this ten percent solution and apply drops and magnify and I can see clearly how unbearable my own existence could be, if I had to suffer like that, day and night. Chronic pain of the body is god awful. Chronic pain of the soul, god awful. I can abide almost anything, because I believe I will find a way through. It is the things there is no getting through, only living with, that terrify me. The man in the ER on the gourney, perhaps on his last trip anywhere, this simple day in August before the kids start school, when the Targets are stuffed with shoppers, when I hurt a rib and hold Mr. Curry's hand for hours, that day could have been the last day, hour, moment, consciousness for him. It was for someone.

Somewhere a tragedy occurs. In the ER you can hear the crying out of the world. The tiny premature Hispanic baby in the row ahead of me wailed the entire time. His Grandma held him closed, rocked him, saying shhh. I saw his tiny dark oval eyes open and close to this room, noise, light. He cried and cried and we all shuffled our feet and coughed and rocked and tried not to let the pain take over so that we might cry out, too, and the whole world could see how much it hurts.

24 Weeks

before i was sick, i was smiling! and happy! and not hee hawing!


Lola approaches the strange, new planet with her normal verve...

and like The Little Prince, makes herself sweetly at home.
*i'll be 26 weeks this Tuesday

The Pregnant Wife Donkey and Her One True Love Survive a Bad Cough

Saturday at the mall I felt sick. It's the mall food- as Mr. Curry said. It's the beef and grease, I replied glumly. We let the kids all get enormous freckled jawbreakers and headed out of the three storied consumer feast and back into our small and very hot jeepy. I call it a jeepy because it's not a jeep but so closely resembles a jeep- to me, someone who knows negative nothing about cars. On the way down the moving staircase ( I'm about 5, so I call it a moving staircase, and I'm about 15, so I always think of that scene in Mallrats where the guy is obsessed with the story of the kid getting his foot caught in the staircase and reams out a Mom letting her son goof off ) I decide it's not the mall food or just too much beef, it's an anxiety attack. It's too much goddamn stuff, I say. It's freaking me out- there are too many people and too much stuff. This is the kind of spiritual conniving I come up with when I am not having a profound moment of realization about American culture but instead am coming down with a wicked cough.

By Monday I was coughing. By Monday night I settled in with a wad of toilet paper in my undies and pillows supporting the upright position to achieve exactly three hours of sleep on the family couch. Tuesday I skipped work- a painful decision considering our finances right now, with our roomate moving out and Dakota's testing this month- and went to the doctor. Well, he said, raising his very groomed eyebrow after assessing my symptoms, are you coughing up green stuff? Yes. So it's a sinus infection. Here's a prescription, feel better. I immediately have a guilt attack. With Dakota and Lola I did not use antibiotics once during the entirity of the incubation. Ever has a sorry track record:

In her third month ( where she was still making feet- TOES, for God's sake ) I had a painful tooth pulled which developed a severe infection. Antibiotics.

In her fifth month I developed a UTI ( most commonly occuring from very aggressive sex, my gynocologist once told me- I think he was just jealous ) and spent a day on the toilet playing Scrabble with Lola before giving in- Antibiotics.

In her sixth month I had a bacterial infection and yes, once again, Antibiotics.

So here we are in the last few weeks of her sixth month and I am, once again, on drugs.

I take the antibiotics, and go to work Wednesday. Wednesday night, another night of desperate attempts at breathing salt filled steam and gargling and forcing Mr. Curry to go to bed- with Lola- so that I can not worry about him worrying about me and just be miserable, and Wednesday at work I call the doctor. Wait one more day, he says. Wednesday night I am miserable on top of miserable. By 9pm I am getting a grip Maggie and forcing Mr. Curry to again go to bed. In the kitchen I start coughing so hard I vomit in the sink and have pulled small muscles in my front and back ribs. Sharp, mean pains shoot through my boobs and chest when I cough, which is once every three minutes, and lasts about a minute each cough. My head throbs, my face is swollen, my legs are swollen, and my throat is killing me.

Mr. Curry comes in and holds me close. I am ridiculous, I say, snot on my face- trying to be funny but not sure if I can have a sense of humor about this. Yes, you are, he says, smoothing back my hair, and beautiful, and I love you, and this will be over soon. I try to answer but begin coughing so hard Mr. Curry insists on picking me up and carrying me to the toilet. I protest but he swings me up, hee hawing and hacking, and carries me through the hall. My coughing turns deeper and harder and I panic: I am going to pee on you honey! I shriek-cough, put me down! He swings my legs to the side for a better grip and something goes flying through the air. My pee pad! I yell, completely horrified, My wet pee pad fell out! Mr. Curry begins laughing so hard he almost drops me. I begin laughing so hard I do pee a little. We barely make it to the toilet in time.

Today I worked a half day and went back to the doctor, handed them my 30$ copay to be told, Um...you are sick. Like, really sick. Wow. That really sucks, to be THAT sick when you are pregnant. I hope you feel better. Let me wash my hands.

I dragged Lola to the pharmacy and to grab a salad and dumped myself on the couch at home, breaking into whinnying sobs against Mr. Curry's side. Hee haw, I'm so sick honey, hee haw, I can't take this anymore.

I am preparing myself for what is surely a virus, I was now told, but still- keep taking the Amoxicillan, because often these viruses turn into bacterial infections. And hey, get some sleep.

Hee haw.

How To Be Alone

I've Got a Crush On: Michael Lewis and Tabitha Soren

I'm 35, the perfect age to remember and adore Tabitha Soren as an MTV dj: plucky, intelligent, cute and never trying too hard when surrounded by the uber-cool. When bought the memoir Home Game from Borders, I quickly realized it's author, Michael Lewis, had made 2 uber-cool moves: married Tabitha Soren, the erstwhile MTVdj and recent photographer, and written the book The Blind Side which was made into a movie and another crush of mine- Sandra Bullock- had starred in. And then I read his book.

The first rule of fatherhood is that if you don't see what the problem is, you are the problem.

I get her ( daughter Quinn ) to school and enjoy a brief feeling of self-satisfaction: I am coping manfully with a big mess.... This cheering thought lasts until I get home and find my wife in tears. Often I try to hide, but usually she spots me, and when she does, she will usually say something poignant. " I feel like I'm going through this alone, " for instance. Or, " I don't know how much more of this I can take. "

The other day on the way to school Quinn demanded, unusually, that I shut off the nursery rhymes. Then, even more unusually, she sat silently, staring straight ahead and ignoring my attempts to engage her in conversation. I tilted the rearview mirror to make sure she wasn't choking on something and was greeted with a gaze of what can only be described as mad intensity. Finally she said, " My daddy is dead. "
Four weeks ago, before the birth of Dixie, this would have shocked me. Now it's almost pleasantly familiar.

This book ( culled from Lewis' column on parenthood at Slate ) brought praise but also took a lot of flack for it's man-cave mentality, but I am here to tell you it's laugh out loud and wake your family funny, more than worth it's 14$ paperback price. Of course he drives the points home harder than necessary, of course he pushes the edge to get the laugh, but there is a frank honesty about this memoir- which chronicles the birth an first year of their three children- Quinn, Dixie and Walker- and the marriage that is immensely appealing and sweet. I read it and Mr. Curry read it and we both still quote from it, grinning.

What a cool family.* love children's names!

The Girl's Room En Route

the first stencil finished...the painting done...




fairy banner hung over bed...


Ever's crib assembled at the foot of Lola's bed...yes, our baby will sleep in the closet ( naps only, co-sleep at night )


the cross we purchased at a fair trade store in Nashville, TN hangs over the headboard, and Stitch ' Stitchy-Bubby ', purchased for Lola at 2 years old on her first trip to Disney, keeps the pillow cosy

nite nite

Welcome SPONSOR: Oh, Little Rabbit

Oh, Little Rabbit is a completely charming shop run by a husband and wife team who use beautiful block prints to make napkins, bags, baby onsies ( they sent the one below for Ever, isn't is adorable! ) pillow covers and more as they add to their new online store.

The Oh, Little Rabbit statement:

I am thrilled to accept them as a new sponsor and hope you will visit their shop and look around; their lovely ad is running on my sidebar now! xo

less than zero

My heart races not in the gallop of gallows but the quick-pat smatters of a child's feet on linoleum. I am free of zoloft: free of repressions, subconscious and chemical changes that carve away at my personhood, free of minimalized orgasms and the creeping vine of subclinical fatigue- free of my combat fatigues. Free also of constancy, of the working control panel of my emotional mind, the tiny receptors and inceptors of neuron and chemical that create the patina of my days, free of the pause button before the avalanche of thought and emotion, free of nights without floating anxiety before my eyes like small motes of decay in the retina.

I am free to know I did the best I could for Ever. Free to worry that a snappish tongue and sandpapered voice is hurting Lola. Free to adore my husband for his quiet shepherding of my volatile moments. Free to examine again, each one an object in the curio, the collection of my fears.

Unnatural grieving- there is such a thing, labeled and written in the books. The kind of grief I know I will experience if X happens, or Mr. Curry dies younger than I expect. Grief like this has the hallmark of a person who loses someone essential to their sense of safety and sense in the world. Yes, my children are essential. Yes, my husband is essential. Perhaps an hard rock childhood throws your balance for a lifetime, making you vulnerable to these kinds of necessities. When I am on a walk and the leaves are skittering in their snaky voices and the wind is blowing and the sky opens and the light dims, I am filled not only with joy but with the deep knowledge and comfort that my husband exists in this and is my companion in our understanding of these leaves, this wind, this light. We look at the world apart but when our eyes meet we are understanding each other in a way that I have never known with any other person in my life. How is it that I would ' grieve normally ' if that were taken away from me? I fear it.

Sleepless in Seattle has the sheen of bull all over it, but the truth it contains resonates with me past the fighting and days or weeks of pain and distance that will take time from most married couples, the disagreements, the profound disappointments, the irritations that chip away at the important. What it got so right was the sense of homecoming. That is my place with Mr. Curry. I suppose that it is a similar feeling believers have with God, but in a very mortal and tangible expression.

What struck me so deeply with Inception was the loss of home that occurred simultaneously with the death of the wife. A fitting metaphor: extradition. Removal from your home. Flight into fantasy, dreamworlds, unsure of reality.

I have been more unsure of reality than most people I come across who seem snugly rooted in the absolute truths of time, birth, death, objects, body. My mind, which often had to leave in escape during childhood, has always felt tethered reluctantly to the egg of my skull. Loving and being loved by Mr. Curry gives me the comfort of earthly grounding because he sees me so clearly. I am seen. I am here.

This is why daily I am so aware of seeing those who are often left alone. The elderly treated in deference but often as strange half human half angelic creatures, not quite alive or dead, but waiting. To meet the eye of a person is a simple thing. A profound thing. Teenagers, too, often left as amusing and strange creatures from another species, especially those who are different- the emos, the true geeks, the socially bizarre, the heshens, sluts, the painfully shy or pierced.

Without zoloft I have to remind myself every hour, every half hour, to breathe, to watch the tide of emotion as it swells, breaks and recedes in the same pattern as birthing contractions. Go with it. Where else will I go? To escape is the human impulse. To go with it is the only way through to the other side. I breathe, I try to keep my mouth shut, to smile at my children, to temper every over reaction and childish fit of frustration with the adult mind that is still there but overshadowed. I remind myself how lucky I am, that in another time I would have gone my whole life without this drug, and who knows what I would have become, after therapy and yoga and nutrition and breathe were simply not enough to balance what was so horribly electrified in my youth, through circumstance and a long legacy of brilliant but imbalanced minds.

Less than zero- to go to the end point of the ray and bend over, fingers gripping the edge of the sidewalk, peer into the complete unknown and uncontrolled. To fall into. To let go. To emerge through the nothingness into something new. To tesseract.

xo
maggie may

the peace of wild things

Namesake

My mom Mary holding David ( he is an adult now ) Aunt Elizabeth, my Grandma Elizabeth, myself, my sister Lura, Margaret

I wrote this for my Mom and Grandmother after my Grandma died. Ever's middle name is in honor of my Grandmother.

***

All grips come loose.
All waves let to water. All that is whole falls apart.
All that was Mother, Is daughter.

On your skin, my skin.
(In your breath, my own.)
With your tears, my tears. (In your heart, my home.)
All connections disconnect.
All planets turn to dust.
All that is now becomes the past
All we love; We love so fast.

M.M.E.