We do not grow absolutely, chronologically. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another; unevenly. We grow partially. We are relative. We are mature in one realm, childish in another. The past, present, and future mingle and pull us backward, forward, or fix us in the present. We are made up of layers, cells, constellations.
Me and my family are all fine. We don’t have cell service and communication is basically non-existent. Most signals come from the side of the highway (like me right now). Puerto Rico is very different, think Walking Dead without zombies. We got no water or power, but we’re alive and that’s all it matters right now.
“If you think that I cannot live without you,” she says to him, “you are so wrong.”
