He always explained it in a certain way.
A hurricane, he would say.
Swirling and thrashing inside of himself.
Shrapnel, snipping and sawing, flying around him and destroying whatever gets near.
Wind, blowing away whoever gets past the loose strings of his ever unwinding body and water flooding away the people who try to swim.
And the water keeps getting caught in his throat, and it burns, he'd say.
It burns so much.
But storms go out.
And I've never thought for a second that the good ones die young, until he was gone.
