When I turned 27, I never neared death, but I looked into the night sky understanding what they meant by the “fear of god.”
Mystery, it turns out, is also beautiful and terrifying—like the plasma of our earliest memories—spread against the evening canvas like thick, wet paint waiting to dry.
I turned to the person I loved and asked: But what if this is it? What if nothing is a valid response and nothing is what will greet us?
Not every question is born with an answer. So what will we do in the meantime—what will we do in the empty hall of voices?