No, my heart didn’t break then and still hasn’t. It maybe just chipped a little, the kind of splinter that flows into the bloodstream to cause covert damage along its path. My mother warned me about splinters, but I never listened. Remove it, she’d say while wielding a sterilized sewing needle above my skin, or deal with infection.
Earl’s splinter is that of memory. Memory, which fills in that which we don’t currently see. Memory, which takes the exact shape of our desire, the chronology that charts our purpose.
Curious? Come check it out, motherfucker!
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