The only person I ever punched in the face is dead. His name was Seneca, like the old Roman philosopher. About the time I read his obituary, I died too.
I was working night watch at a GM plant outside of Detroit and, thermos full of hot water and backpack full of teabags and textbooks, I attended university in the mornings. Nine a.m., Ancient Greek. Latin right after. Then some history classes. On a welcome spring break my senior year, I arranged to have my wisdom teeth removed.

“There is no permanent self,” he’d whispered louder than he’d intended. It was only in that moment he finally became aware of himself, what he was doing, and that he never meant to say anything out loud at all.