A storm sagged the June sky until it purpled. Wind moved the grass. A field that stretched on until the earth curved and disappeared.

They sat on the porch together, one rocking and one still.

“What is it feel like? To be dead, I mean?”

“It ain’t like nothing.”

“Does it hurt?”

“No. Burns though, like a muscle’s been used too much. And there’s a longing…a deep one can’t be fixed.”

“What happens after?”

“Ain’t no after. Ain’t no before neither. Just one big circle, turning. This is what you learn, see, before you forget it all again.”

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I am often asked what I do for a living; the simple answer is, I make stuff. I make stuff with my bare hands, with code, with colors, with words. I aid in making the people around me realize their optimum selves. I make my mother proud. I try to make my kids happy and encourage them to contribute more than they consume. I make sure self comes first. I make money. I make my own luck. I make a pretty solid french toast. And I do all that I can everyday to make the world better than it was yesterday.