I love them, for their chutzpah, their cheek. For how they march in all puffed up and mighty and then stumble over a humble truth or two and pause—undone, disrobed—to gently gather the fraying threads of whatever came before into one tidy bundle of ‘done’.
I love endings for how they insist that we pause, too, right in the midst of the full helter skelter, to make some uneasy sense of the lot before hurtling onward again. I love endings for how un-endlike they are, how merciless, how unstoppable. How made up, how impossible, how irrevocably and eternally human and undone. Who would we be without such concoctions as these?