There wasn't much I could have said. And driving home in a snow storm, with my truck going sideways at times, made it all seem so much more dramatic. Of course I could've died. But I wasn't thinking of death. I was thinking of different things, like things I could have said, perhaps, things I will say. But being home now, slightly warmer than I just was, it seems insignifcant. I'm tired and I'll be going to bed right after I write this. And even though I'm still thinking about those things, and I might be thinking about them tomorrow while I serve people their fish; at this point it doesn't matter. The things I have tried didn't really work. The things that I thought would help me quit bad habits, haven't helped any. I still think and still smoke. I still try to solve problems that either have nothing to do with me inparticular, or things that I have no control over to begin with. And one day I'll die from this. I won't be wearing my seltbelt and I'll go flying through my windshield. If the impact doesn't kill me the jagged pieces of glass cutting my throat will.

But as I lay dying in a drift of snow, with my body becoming numb, with blood making the snow around me impure--I wouldn't be thinking of death. I'd be thinking thoughts of night. How it's dark and how perhaps I could find a solution in the next life. If I even believe in that. But what I think I could've said, or how perhaps I could have done something different in all the instances I think of--I realize right now, with the week's fatigue catching up--I'm rather ignorant. I know not what I will do nor the reasons for any future action I may take. I'll just live it and take whatever comes my way.

I'll take whatever comes my way. And if nothing comes. I'll be here thinking. Because I can't quit that, even though I'm rather dumb.