jezebel.com

There Is No After

Shortly before Christmas last year, I sent a message to Jeff Sharlet, a writer I don’t know, thanking him for memorializing the dead. It was a Sunday night, past 2 a.m., and though I can’t remember the specific thing keeping me awake I know its basic contours. Most every feeling I’ve had this year is a shifting arrangement of terrible, grasping dread and raw disbelief. (And fury, of which I have o