How could a mother who boils water for pasta leave two little girls behind?
The architecture of my sister's thinking, now phantom. I fall down stairs that are nothing but air.
Grief and love are conjoined, you don't get one without the other. All I can do is love her, and love the world, emulate her by living with daring and spirit and joy.
Someone might as well roll up the whole sky, pack it away for good.
We wish with our hands, that's what we do as artists.
He doesn't have to say it, i feel it too; it's not subtle - like every bell for miles and miles is ringing at once, loud and clanging, hungry ones and tiny, happy, chiming ones, all of them sounding off in this moment. I put my hands around his neck, pull him to me, and then he's kissing me hard and so deep, and i am flying, sailing, soaring.
Our tongues have fallen madly in love and gotten married and moved to Paris.
I heard this expression once: Each time someone dies, a library burns. I'm watching it burn right to the ground.
I have an impulse to write all over the orange walls- I need an alphabet of endings ripped out of books, of hands pulled off of clocks, of cold stones, of shoes filled with nothing but wind.
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