Summer in the city.
I’m just going through the day, hot and sunny, blue-sky fine. What else is there to do?
Somewhere across the Atlantic, Madoff gets 150 years in prison and the talk is still about Michael Jackson. And not just across the ocean. How strange that the saddest man made so many happy. Did he know it, wrapped up and hidden, walking in place?
Like him or not, everywhere this death – because of how it is rippling through our minds – is a forceful reminder of our essential impermanence – white skin or black, thick nose or thin, rich or poor, young or old.
At the last breath, what else is there? What did all that effort come down to? Just the last breath. Always just the last breath, right now. Take it in and let it go.
There will never be another like it.