On the eight hundred and eighty-first day of her death a drunken man wails in the wilderness.
Oftentimes during life or at the end of life, there is a need to believe. The alternative — the void, the emptiness — become too much. Too many loved ones have died. The shotgun awaits. You resist it. You cry out for help.
His ex-wife threw the photo albums down the incinerator. That’s the effect he had on women—he left scars.