One day, I’ll dare to raise my middle finger at the stork and the reaper deftly runs a fine thread of existential consciousness through occasions of birth and death and, of course, through that intervening pathway that we all crave and revere as much as we dread: age and aging. The result is finely distilled poetry: a poetic truth and a poetic language and a poetic beauty that are as fascinating and compelling as they are irresistible.
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