I’m driven to Death in strange ways.
Oh, I limit my drinks; I count calories; I exercise daily; I smoke only on the Fourth of July; I believe in Heaven; I help a brother when he’s down. But I also walk against traffic; I don’t wear my seatbelt; I’ve stood outside in thunderstorms; I hold packages close to my chest, cut the tape in the direction of my heart; I press my weight against upper-story railings.
It’s a statistical anomaly, a miracle, that I’m here. That any of us are. We fight against it daily, wanting—always—to be somewhere else.