this week i

untangled my mind.  plenty to do, i wanted none of it.  one month of frigid cold without snow.

ate japanese too.  fitting they're goldfish shaped, i am red bean surprised every time

watched making a murderer.  the amateur innocence project genre strikes me as ambulance chasing journalism rather than earnest exoneration.

read sum: forty tales from the afterlives by david eagleman.  often written in the second person

there are three deaths.  the first is when the body ceases to function.  the second is when the body is consigned to the grave.  the third is that moment, sometime in the future, when your name is spoken for the last wait in this lobby until the third death.  there are long tables with coffee, tea, and cookies..many people leave just as their loved ones arrived, since the loved ones were the only ones doing the remembering.  we all wag our heads at that typical timing

on their last day, howling because it is the end of their lives, babies climb back into the wombs of their monthers, who eventually shrink and climb back into the wombs of their mothers, and so on like concentric russian dolls