It’s a cold, hard world – literally. The snow on the ground has crusted over. Walking the dogs or out to the car is as treacherous for someone with my old bones as wing walking in an aerial circus would be. Aging has broken me little by little, part by part, kind of like a slow-acting poison. My heart is chipped and dented, and my head crawling with monsters. No one knows the real me, including me. In the Book of Isiah an angel touches the lips of the prophet with a burning coal in a rite of purification. What can I help you with today? my AI copilot asks.
Howie Good is a widely published but little-known author.