Each of us hangs here in this world by a spider’s thread, a strong enough wind will put an end to any of us.   It’s a miracle, if you think about it, that an entire mad world has been put together by people in this precarious position.   Immense structures of heavy metal fly through the air, filled with people, all hanging by a string as thin as a spider’s web.

It may last a day, a month, a few years or a century, but the most important thing, I think, is not to leave damage on the souls of the people we encounter.  As the kindly drug pusher told me on that long ago Greyhound coming back from Boston, when I declined his offer of a laundry list of drugs and he then handed me a free percoset, as I was on crutches with a newly sliced tendon on the bottom of my foot, “if I can’t help, I don’t hurt.”