I'm sitting on the back porch playing guitar in the dark. Since I can't see the music I just lean back into the white, plastic lawn chair and watch as jets float across the blue-black star-dotted sky. The air is cool and humid, and completely calm. In between songs I sit and listen to the peaceful quiet and wonder if it was worse to be shot dead by an insane stranger, or lie helpless watching life drain from a friend.
Thirty two people experienced the first, a few dozen the second, a few hundred have been touched second hand, and the remaining 259 million of us are left sitting on our back porches, wondering, watching helpless. Life is fragile. Life is short.
I think I'll go call my dad and tell him I love him.
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