Audrey begins her new job today.

And I have a second interview at one o'clock for a dream job of my own.

Future comes calling. We push toward something newish, marching ever toward healthier choices. Nothing putrid can last.

In the shadows clinging to their myths are the left-behind scowlers, waiting for history to repeat itself, watching stink-eyed as the present descends upon them and they slip into irrelevance.

I can see Audrey standing beside her desk, laughing, listening, adoring her new friends at work.

I visualize my handshake with the President of my new company, fresh, crisp W2 forms being slid in front of me to sign.

But then something says, "What if not? What if no laughing? No handshake? No W2s?"

Cynicism is a form of mental retardation.

Religion is no cure, despite its promise of something in the next life worth sacrificing for. Implicit in that placebo is acquiescence that nothing in this life is.

Logic and reason also fall short, relying too much on perspective. What appears to be sensible might not be, depending on one's point of view.

The only cure for cynicism is sheer will.


Simply refuse to believe that everything will fail.

Take hold of the relics of love and implant them in some material way in your life. Take a picture of love when you see it.


Invent ways to sustain love's tiny, withering echoes. That's the cure.