I pull up the hood on my jacket, jamming hands into the pockets and walk down the stairs. The air is knife-cold, slithering between layers of clothing. I let a breath out, let the cold in, driving out morning angst and the last of the coffee’s warmth. I think if one of us was good with mornings, Ed and I might have lasted, together. Without that we always said too much that hurt; I know it’s not that simple, but I like to think it could have been. I don’t know what scares me more: that we might be too complex for the easy labels of psychology, or that none of us are as complex as we think. We complicate everything by making in into a story, love more than anything else, when a wildlife documentary shows how uncomplicated such things are.
"The first man to tell a story ruined the purity of living. Every word we speak is another loss, a further step taken from the world," a voice says, soft, beside my right ear.
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