to live, in a sense, is to feel alive. they who do not feel alive are not living, not truly—they are surviving, floating along, with no intent, direction or passion. to be alive is to live with passion, with decisiveness, with risk. to be alive is to speed down the freeway, laughing, listening to loud music. to be alive is to run across the street downtown in the middle of night, staring into oncoming traffic. to swim an underground river, where you can’t see the light on either end; to put your feet up as you let your car roll downhill and close your eyes. to drive towards the mountains in the middle of the night, and catch the sunrise with someone you barely just met. to drive to the mountains and run down the town’s main street at one in the morning, to spend the night sleeping in a truck, by a lake, amidst uncertainty of everything that is happening in your life. to sit at the top of a mount or hill and stare into the city, out to the ocean, feel the cool night air blowing your hair and chilling your nose. to escape into the uncertainty of someone, something, someplace, without consideration of whether it is a good idea. and in hindsight, it usually is not. it was risky, questionable, even dangerous—but you were alive. we live in fine limits, a few steps away from where the line is drawn—between healthy and safe and vulnerable, at-risk. we live in fine limits, because the exhilaration of the risk is what makes us feel alive, and we are never as alive as when faced with the inevitability of our own mortality. we live in fine limits.