You fall in love with failure in bursts, by 25 its for certain, by 30 you’re through with it for good. Still, its scent lingers over the markers absence ignites inside of you. Like, you’ll say a word, then put it to paper, and that paper is the loveliest paper to touch with ink and fingertips, so lovely that it’s quite a thing to bend it into folds and slide it into the envelope.
Oh, failure knows. Failure gets everything. The boundaries, the temperament, the oil stains of a driveway that slick your shoes. Your heart beats into its bony cage the cadence of astronomical expectation. But all you got is a pack of cards and some spearmint gum, a tank of gas and nowhere to get to.
by Hank Cherry