ever the always/sometimes wonder, 
heart in the throat, and cash in hand; 
promises made, then torn asunder, 
faces and bodies barely scanned, 

heritage, legacy in forfeit -- 
choices unmade like a hotel bed -- 
ever the always/sometimes hollow, 
life for the living; death, the dead.

Lives are easier to break than they are to build. Every gift in life can be a curse: every boon, a myriad of opportunities for failure. He had made money, then the money unmade him.

Nothing seems more real in life than the desires of the moment; nothing brings consequences quite so real, either.

Now, many people I know struggle with a form of the belief that modern life itself is not real: the imagery is fake; our relationships are fake; the promises of politicians and businesses are fake. Most of us having spent two years recently locked inside with nothing but the internet didn’t help those types of feelings.

But for him, living out of a hotel and having lost his job, his marriage, and with kids he never sees, life seems only too real. It is hard for him to believe he gave all of that up for things so empty and fleeting.

From everyone to whom much has been given, much will be required; and from one to whom much has been entrusted, even more will be demanded.