Some weeks back, I discovered a note on the windshield. “Yo dipshit,” it began. “Next time leave me some room to get into my car!” As if I had purposefully parked to annoy. I was only for a moment incensed at having been misunderstood and wrongly accused. Then, I found I wanted to plead my case: “but…but…but.” Then, I thought about mortality and eternity. And how we humans, the very smallest of dipshits all, get so much so wrong so often. I, myself, have been known to leave angry, judgmental epistles on others’ windshields—always certain that, whatever the trespass, it had come about through intentional inconsideration. I am very hard on others—but no harder than I am on myself.