Winter is the center of something I can't

When was the last time I read something that

The thing is, I could die here.
The thing is, you could die.
I/we/you/they/us could, at anytime die. Here or there, in a field with the single pony named Ginger Ale, beneath clouds trimmed with fat and gold, and live oaks farther off, lining the highway and it's about to rain. The pony's eyes are broken blue and he swings his head to listen, and all over the nicked ground are the hoof trimmings from actual horses. It's about to rain and everything, everything from that life makes a memory that chokes.

And some die in their own beds, cheek to cheek beside the stuffed rabbit brought as a gift for being born.

I'm not asking you to listen.

On a ferry from Denmark I did 4 shots of Jagermeister by 10 a.m., and settled in to watch Polish Forrest Gump. The view outside the window was all sea to the point where the horizon imposed some relief. My geography fails me to say which sea, but water, as we all know, and deep. A man led me from the bar to a small ship's room. He laid on top of my clothed body. Beyond his right shoulder a curtained sun. From very far below us, rocking. I slid my hand down the wall's seam.

Something from that hour has stayed with me.