I wonder for how long dead skin cells can stay hidden in beds, mangled with the carcass of tiny insects and morsels of food that slipped into folds of the mattress you seldom bothered to clean? Can they somehow last for years before rainwater from a window left open washes them off or before the angry ceiling fan, tired of the summer, blows them off for good? I know the odds aren't in my favor, but there are the odds of the fact that while today I sleep on this bed, in some way, I get to fall asleep with you. The odds aren't much. They aren't even enough. But we were alive at the same time. We met and we loved each other. We spent days looking at each other's faces and touching each other's arms whenever we could. We said the same things at the same time, so many times. So today when they tell me, that the odds aren't enough, I'll tell them I like to believe in miracles.

- The Broken Clock