Once I went camping on a mountain. The mountain, I learned, had a sad and unfortunate past. There was this cycle it continually went through. Over and over and over again. Sometimes it only took a few years. If the mountain was lucky, it might be decades. The ending, however, was always the same. First came the smell of smoke. Then, perhaps, a few screams, or a siren. Soon, the flames would arrive. And then, in a matter of days (or hours), came death. * * * Once I met a guy who used to cut himself. I hadn’t known … Read more »
