So with this new found wisdom (or lie – depending on how you want to look at it), I let go of my face, letting it flap vicariously in the wind. I replaced my detox pills with a glass of Austrian wine, and sat down to write a moment. Or more. About what, I guess I’ll see. Whatever is worthy enough of creating another line, I suppose.
Then when I die, you can analyze my face. Like when you see a 100-year old tree cut down in the woods, and count the number of rings in its stump to determine the tree’s age. Similarly, I will count the number of lines to determine if it was a good life. Well-lived. Well-loved. Well-laughed.