My teacher asked me for permission to leave.
‘Remember when you took the package, and I supported you when you when you wanted to go to Mexico?’
‘Yes.’ I grinned, remembering how everyone in the office looked at me nuts, but for him. His eyes got all sparkley and smiled deep into the ground and to the south.
‘Well, I want you to support me when I want to leave, when I want to go.’

I’m not sure what to say. His skin has been a farm of squamous for months. I have been motivating him through the appointments; scheduling, re-scheduling, and scheduling them again. There are too many to keep track of which dime sized patches were big serious, and which were basal nothing, but I know the geography of each little demon. The hands and arms of my teacher that guided me through my kata, my one steps, my sparring practices, are being scrapped and burned, singed and stitched.

‘I just get the feeling that life is too short. Maybe I’m just over-reacting with all of this mortality shit.’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t think you can over-react to it.’

I am asking the page to tell me what to do. Perhaps I am egoist to think that my wishes matter much for this man, but I don’t know where in my heart to send him.

‘Choose your goal, and know your home and then we’ll talk about you going.’ I resolve
My eyes get salty and sloshy to think that maybe they are the one and the same.