I keep looking forward and then back again, shoulder-checking in my imaginary rear-view mirror. It's almost impossible to see right now. It's just a blur of lines on the highway. And I'm fighting just to stay awake.


Today, I was crying sitting on the floor of Leila's bedroom and she crawled over to me, pulled herself up and wrapped her arms around my neck and put her head on my shoulder and didn't let go for a long time.

Is that a metaphor? For what? For the impossibility of guilt, of engineering without numbers. I'm angry, but that doesn't make me wrong, it doesn't make me right either. I'm not looking for sympathy, a one way mirror turned inwards showing only the accused.

I just want to pick up my child and go. We'll live on the edge of forever, and you can come visit, but there won't be any phones.