A Life Worth Living.
Every Five Years A New Me.
Every five years I visit myself. My usual quinquennial haunt has a whisper of wind, a sprawling tree, an empty book, and a new pen. There is a simple stone marker at my feet. Once again, I am dead.
This isn’t a ghost story or a tale of a new scientific breakthrough but a recognition that every five years my life sheds its exoskeleton to irretrievably leave…