There's someone whom I recently met that, when speaking with him, what comes to mind is the curious image of a comedic cartoon gentleman - comedic for no other reason than to lighten up the image - whose chest is open, and bleeding. His heart is fully exposed, there is a string neatly tied around it with a bow, and he goes about his day as if there were nothing the matter. The other end of the string isn't visible. It extends far out into the distance, disappearing into grey clouds, but I know it's out there. I have the distinct impression that there is someone, miles away, tugging on it, preventing the wound from healing. (The puppetry is unmistakable.)
He's dying. If I could cut the string, I would.
I wonder, sometimes, as people read my blog, if my readers think the same of me.