It hurts, whatever it is. It feels like reading about childhood in summertime, someone else’s past gulping lemonade on a wrap around porch, swatting flies away.
It feels like reverent sunsets, and the dim light of recognition at something, anything beyond our present.
It feels like nature documentaries geared at middle schools, zooming in and out with a strong agenda and some emotion, and remembering someone, somewhere was paid to create this peaceful film.
It hurts is all I’m saying. Those things taste like eternity and death all at once, like brushing against a shadow you can never quite touch or get the feel of.