Dear Diary, it wasn’t until the day I died until I realized I had it all wrong. As a child when I fell out of a tree, I swore God pushed me out. And little oranges he ripped out of my hands, every time time. Or big. It didn’t matter. After only a few bites the sugar and the radiant damp heat of it, hims. Hes. Subject and Object both at the same time. I was a mere article. So many first bites of hims. Lost hes. And so I was stingy, in under this absurd celestial punishment. When I loved someone I tumbled them in my mind until they were shiny. Until they were dust. Every other year I would try to predict my future, and then the next I would try to change my luck. Again and again. I’m dead, I said. And now, when my mind has lost its devices of thumping me, I see what an accident it all was.