let me tell you about the days of high adventure

Okay not really, Conan. In fact, November might just be the longest month, with its grey days slumping into raw nights twisting into bitter mornings sinking into the kind of windswept afternoons where you hang onto the rail, watching the choppy waters, and wonder, fondly, how long 'til the cruellest month again? I tell Oona that Lake Ontario is full of crocodiles, who snap and bite at me as I cross the causeway on the way to work, and it's only half a lie.

Because it's hard to keep moving, isn't it? When the sky is the colour of silverware.

But then: some hope in my mailbox. Can the dead really live again? the brochure asks.
Would you say...
• yes
• no
• maybe?
Apparently, yes. The Bible says there will be a resurrection, because God is the creator of life, and has resurrected humans in the past, and is "eager to do it again" – which is a bit weird, and overreaching. Like he has a resurrection gun, and is itching to get zapping again.
Why do we grow old and die?
I don't know if that's such a good thing to think about. In Dante's November.
Discuss the Bible
with Jehovah's Witnesses. 
__ Please send someone to visit me.
Why is this a proposition in multiples? Does one really need to be teamed? Christ, I can barely face a singular conversation at this time of the year, let alone some kind of inquisition.

But the nudge towards long-form narrative (life, death, your soul, et al) isn't such a bad one. Too many unfinished novels clutter the margins, these endings that are not quite endings, mostly just a dying, like lame horses, in the closing stretch. There must be a winner in there somewhere.

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