Journal de la mort

What a doozy of a day for Death, right? I mean, everything I read in the paper today had a connection to the great finality. Jeb Bush likes to arbitrate when and how you go; the Supreme Court likes to decide if you have a chance to make it here at all, and then when and how you go; the Niagra guy tried to go, but couldn't leave; sad Elliot Smith made his own call and checked out.

And today was the kind of day that never quite fell into place anyway. My skin feels like it doesn't fit me right; my jaw aches from grinding it at night.

My own little personal teleology needs an overhaul. I feel like all I'm finding are burned wasps these days.