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a pOssible good death

Sometimes you are shell-shocked by the feel of a letter curved under the wrinkly skin where your fingers meet your palm. There is a tangy chew to the rounded edges of an O perfectly positioned three-sevenths of the way down a stack of letters, precariously close to the sharpened vertex of an S. At dark hours when there are only your thoughts and the weight of silence on your eyelids, you even think that you could die--right then and there--if you might only find a way to string together the perfect sentence with the exact proportion of words and letters clasped snugly around your throat.
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