I used to believe life was worth living.
I visit a primal land and unexpectedly receive glimpses of past lives as a 10 year old.
I obsess about a guitar that wasn't for me.
I taught my son to play with his fingers, one of the most profound connections we shared.
I had to choose. I lost my temper, I sat next to him with a pencil.
He would have been great. His hand still looked alive in death.
What does it all mean?