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I have a kind of silly fear of stairs, uncarpeted ones mostly. It’s like, when I descend a set of steep stairs I can see my own death. It would be very easy. My foot would slips a little, I’d fall backwards onto concrete or metal or wood or tile and crack my head open. Blood everywhere, terrible tragedy. I see it clinically, the way the police officer would, but my heart pounds and I clutch the railing. That’s weird and morbid isn’t it? Is it normal to think about your own death? I don’t do it on the edges of cliffs, only on stairs, and sometimes in the shower when I think about how slippery and hard porcelain can be.

I have this conviction that that is how I am going to die, by slipping and hitting my head on something. I didn’t really used to have this problem, or at least it wasn’t so bad. It has gotten worse as I’ve gotten older and heavier and my knees have started protesting. Sounds like I’m seventy and not twenty-one but there it is. At age five I worried about dying in a fire lit by a careless cigarette butt, now its stairs. Not terrorism, not cancer, not a car crash; stairs.

11:20 p.m. October 25, 2004

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“Y’all aren’t from around here, are ya.” - August 21, 2005
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