I honestly think I’d give up smoking if he asked me.
Means a lot tbh
This is one of my favourite vintage pictures.
Above us, on the second floor, my mother’s
footsteps creaking fall. When we die, that’s it.
He looks heavenwards: what’s up with dinner?
What? No, no, there is no god. The subject—
or maybe it’s just me—distresses him.
He’d rather talk about what I plan to do
with my life. Time is short, and passing, in
this world that’s all we’ve got. I’m thirty-two
and I am not, God knows—I hope—trying
to pass on to him, bearded, distant, the blame
for the shape my life has taken, denying
responsibility. God is the name
we give to all the things that scare us most:
how we live, and what happens when we don’t.