We tell ourselves stories in order to live. But what happens when the stories we tell ourselves are no longer enough?

No one knew who had built it or why. Now it would be the focal point of their desperate attempt to change their fortunes.

It seeps into my soul, this fear. It colors every decision I make. How can I plan for a future that feels so uncertain?

As is often the case with aging, for the last few years, severe arthritis in her hands made it impossible for her to continue her artwork.

I tried to tell myself he didn’t suffer—death is inevitable—I’m no stranger to that.

It’s about the American infatuation with the self — the ‘I’ that must be satiated, adorned, and ultimately monetized.

From the depths of my heart, thank you for your service and for embodying the human spirit’s unwavering strength and resilience.

The faint gasps of the desperate reach my ears, yet I remain indifferent.