And who can say what it is?

Financial stability, an empty schedule, and no responsibilities… so I’ve heard.

But maybe it’s lotion on cracked winter hands—stinging, healing.  The endlessness of open roads.  Music and art.  Maybe it’s the release that comes with cussing, the solitude of car-crying, or the last moment of worship in a sanctuary about to be destroyed.

Maybe it’s nothing.

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