I woke at three in the afternoon. I woke with only four hours left of daylight. That's how much I had slept. That’s the price of partying: losing the moments in life that might ever measure up to something, like church-going and accordion-playing and breakfast- and lunch-eating. I woke with most of the day gone, the promise of fluorescent lights illuminating the rest of my waking hours.

--

At night, MJ asked me to read her letter to CF, and I made the requisite remarks about editing, suggestions about structure and tone--that was familiar, yet the content was alien, unexpected. She is cheerful, except for the moments when pain slides through the cracks, sorrow bubbling up through the crevices, but she mixes the cement to pave over the holes, and there it goes; it vanishes again beneath the youthful pizzazz, the unabashed cursing and enthusiasm.

I hugged her and all I could offer was "I'm sorry you have so much hurt in your life."

She shrugged and flashed a mirthless smile as she looked away, "It happens."