What makes reading, writing, and observing daily life so joyful and necessary is that it simultaneously can, does, and will end in the very act. For me in my sixtieth year, there is no better definition of beauty than knowing my days are numbered, and that each of them is timeless and infinite. “I am here” and “I am not here” make up the sweet science of gratitude and vulnerability that make this life, whether or not or however truly, whimsically, or importantly it exists, the tender, worthwhile, instructive, baffling thing it is. How wonderful, this being a child in the face of monstrous concerns, to greet the weary tyrants of this world and invite them in to play. How wonderful, to play jacks with politicians, and to remind them of the art of make-believe.