I have always been the primary accomplice in the collaborative effort to plot my own destruction.
Hardly ever before has there been such an efficient inside job.
The only role in the plot that it never occurred to me to assume was that of the getaway driver.
It is astonishing what a little nightly sleep will do.
Each precious hour gets mutilated; month after month, year after year. I watch the moments of my life drift away in ever increasingly colossal units, slave to a purpose neither my own nor from above.
I might have instead built a great pyramid or a new Parthenon by now... If only I had been born in Egypt, or Memphis, or Nashville.
Then... one day you get news that you will be getting much, if not all of it, back.
It's like finding out that you've got a lifetime's worth of tax returns waiting to be claimed. They're processing it now and you should be getting a check in a couple months. It's so much money they might have to break it up into two checks, for tax reasons.
They wouldn't want to bump me into a higher bracket.