Lately it seems I am doing everything by half.
Half-hearing the morning warble of Robins,
the gunshot-terror of the morning news. Half-
remembering the list of errands and the list of
things to do before I grow old and infirm. Half-
seeing the delightful glint of early-evening light
on my window, the malevolent glare on my ever-
glowing screens. Half-reading, half-scrolling,
half-loving, half-hating.

Ever halfway between where I am and where I
want to be, too far advanced to start over, too
far away to make it in time, I pause, out of breath,
and look for a place to sit—perhaps in an alcove
by a brook, the sound of my agitated heart and
the blue-white waters hitting me full-on—and
become but a stone weathering away into sand.