I could just die now. Any slit, pill, shot, lucky punch to the head. But there’s no cross off yet. Bucket list long like ancient scrolls, designated as scriptures, may as well be allegory, fairy story, for all we’ll ever know.
If I died now, I’d never see my wife’s roots, IMAX, hear my daughter’s sentence spit graduate from bile, meet who my son chooses.
Missed every perfect end point, before people found out what I did, and even reason can’t evaporate, like custard powder right out of milk, each sin that’s not a sin because that’s a religious thing and I’m not religious now.
We’re all, effectively, ambiguous morally. It’s another man-made constraint like don’t chew gum on the shop floor, no personal phone calls. And the dust is kind of comforting.