A Harvard student and a fantasy footballer board a bus to downtown Detroit.
What stays behind isn’t paint or plaster; it’s the way we’ve marked each other when the walls themselves were the only witnesses.
A small part of my mind traces back to the moments I spent sitting in the big hospital chair, able to reflect without worrying about the speed of life around me. Time I thought I had lost.
For the most part, I don’t go about my days actively thinking I am a bad person. But I can’t control when the thoughts arise — and when they do, they are relentless.