Thoughts of a Solitary Farmhouse

And not to feel bad about dying. Not to take it so personally— it is only the force we exert all our lives to exclude death from our thoughts that confronts us, when it does arrive, as the horror of being excluded— . . . something like that, the Canadian wind coming in off Lake Erie rattling the windows, horizontal snow appearing out of nowhere across the black highway and fields like billions of white bees.