Found out this morning that three english teachers like me were killed the other day in Hokkaido in just about the same situation we were in. Car dies on lonely, icy, winding road with no shoulder, they get out to take a look and are struck by a truck coming around a blind corner. Same situation. Same time.

Death is like air. We breathe it in when we breathe in life. That snowplow almost hit us. Did it ever see us?

G. also. His father killed in a hit and run the other day.

We wrap ourselves in a thin sheet of reason, clutch it close against the gusts of an indifferent world that pull and tug and show us glimpses through the gaps and folds.