“Praise, praise!” I croak. Praise God for all that’s holy, cold, and dark. Praise him for all we lose, for all the river of the years bears off. Praise him for stillness in the wake of pain. Praise him for emptiness. Praise him for dying, and the peace of death. […] What’s lost is nothing to what’s found, and all the death that ever was, set next to life, would scarcely fill a cup.
— Jan 17, 2026 09:41AM
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