Dying the first time was easy – just as much so as most mistakes. Obvious only in hindsight, only without the hindsight, just one blurring, obliterating second to know it had all gone wrong somehow.

Dying the second time was deja vu – something going wrong again, just one second to wonder why it all felt so familiar.

Dying the third time was recognition. By the fourth, hindsight had started to catch up, as hard as fixing most mistakes. When something fragile is already falling and your hands are clumsy miles behind it, reaching much too slow to catch it, what’s left but waiting for the crash?

Dying the fifth time was wondering just that. Dying the sixth time was trying to do it a little differently, to find out.