Anne bakes the best croissants. Bill cracks the best jokes. I make the best prefect. The smell of chalk mingled in the air as Mr Mark wrote my name in front of the class. Ugh. Smells like the 80s. Sounds like my girlfriend’s squeal when she saw me. Nostalgic and unwelcoming. I had no intention

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I don’t always think about death, but when I do, I really think about it. A part of dying is learning that the quality of the things you put on and inside yourself really matters. The horror that I would be buried in threadbare underwear. The horror! Those faded patterns, the elastic that has seen

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