I held back because I thought time was a Friends’ box set: even when it’s done, repeats are playing somewhere. And we must be that pick-up-able thing so that answerless questions get met after summer breaks or in sister shows. Not just fan fiction.
Our expiration date was a line read from a hand by a hack or somebody with genuine talent if you believe talent exists in all its reported fashions. To some, creased palms show work and working, but now I understand the kink in the centre of mine, akin to birth marks or made scars. It’s us wearing out and me watching last words on lips I didn’t kiss every opportune moment. I don’t know when a moment is.
Nicholas Sparks as god.