An Examined Life You move with a kind of precise delicacy, pinching life between thin fingers and an inch at a time - you peel back a thin layer of tissue to expose the wet, pink nerve. You know what you're looking at is fragile, could waft away like smoke, but you can't seem to grasp its significance. You think of clocks, wrapping their hands around your throat, choking back time so that you never move forward. You look at a life-line spotted with missed opportunities, not events or moments just gaps. In your mind these are swollen black dots, black holes you fall through. You drift through these tunnels and emerge cringing in the light on the other side. Passing through - you can only close your eyes and hope you've missed nothing but darkness. Copyright, 2004, Lorin Oberweger