I shiver in my boots when I type, because one day I know that I will be dust and stolen carbon, scattered and pressurized and a thin layer in the earth's crust. But what the words are going to do after I'm gone? I have no control over what havoc they wreak. I send them out, and they set events into motion while I stand aloof from the twister, watching the ground rise up beneath.
Right now, everything is at a standstill. Anthologies have withered and blown away, publications folded and whimpering their way into death. I am no one in particular.
But I feel -- with a growing sense of terror -- that I have no control over what is coming for me. And more importantly, coming for my words.
This human experience is a curious thing indeed.
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