Survivor Guilt

It's very easy to get. Just keep living and you'll find yourself getting more and more of it. You can keep it or pass it on, but it's a good idea to keep a small portion for those nights when you're feeling so good you forget you're human. Then drudge it up and float down from the ceiling that is covered with stars that glow in the dark for the sole purpose of being beautiful for you, and as you sink their beauty dims and goes out— I mean it flies out the nearest door or window, its whoosh raising the hair on your forearms. If only your arms were green, you could have two small lawns! But your arms are just there and you are kaput. It's all your fault, anyway, and it always has been— the kind word you thought of saying but didn't, the appalling decline of human decency, global warming, thermonuclear nightmares, your own small cowardice, your stupid idea that you would live forever— all tua culpa. John Phillip Sousa invented the sousaphone, which is also your fault. Its notes resound like monstrous ricochets. But when you wake up your body seems to fit fairly well, like a tailored suit, and you don't look too bad in the mirror. Hi there, feller! Old feller, young feller, who cares? Whoever it was who felt guilty last night, to hell with him. That was then.