Dear Ying
A stalker in the house. But the tender kind. Letting go is hard, but inevitable.
a very emotional writer
I look at the past, and see regrets, misgivings, hard lessons, multiple what-ifs, laughter, tears.
I gaze upon the present for the happy moments, the blessed days, the sun, the stars, the mornings when the back straightens without aching, the boisterous ruckus of my boys, my wife's voice, and her breath on my pillow, and all of their breathing noises in the moonlight.
I look to the future, and see fewer great men and women, automated everything, dumber AI-reliant minds, multiple what-ifs, sleeker lighter tools and less human connectness.
I stare at the blank page before me - whatever will I write about? - and I let rip.
A true crime non-fiction novel of how Anthony Ler navigated the murder of his wife in 2001, narrated by a former editor who worked with him - Me.
Pre-order news soon
Space for rent: Major renovations required. Four inch square. Located in chest cavity.
She said nothing. He feeds her another grape, a big red seedless Aussie. Still, nothing. He forgot to inflate her.
For sale: Chinese Baby shoes. Well borrowed.
There once was a girl. A girl. A girl. A girl. One fell off the wagon. How many? Three. Theresa, Diana, Mary. No boys? No boys. Peace.
Circles cannot fit into triangles, stars cannot fit into squares, triangles cannot fit into stars. He cries deafeningly. Silence. Lollipop fits into all hole shapes.
A stalker in the house. But the tender kind. Letting go is hard, but inevitable.
Not everyone gets a second chance. Especially not the dead.
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