Nashville.

Some things are too terrible to feel.

Somewhere in the deepest, most primitive part of the brain, a spark is lit; a mechanism switches on. The brain turns one palm out, and wraps the other around the heart.

Do something.

Everyone is screaming at the sky, their voices a choir of unharmonious clamor. Lips curl and gums flash red while teeth cut against nothing but air.

Do something.

We will feel better in the morning. We will feel better in the morning if today, we tell someone to do something. We will be able to lay our heads down, tuck our own children in, and remember to put the cap back on the toothpaste because we told someone to do something.

An arbitrary battle cry, large enough to ride along the crest of a wave. It won’t matter that the wave still breaks on the shores of a bloody beach. By the time it reaches, we will already be asleep.