Someone might as well roll up the whole sky, pack it away for good.
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.
How could a mother who boils water for pasta leave two little girls behind?
I heard this expression once: Each time someone dies, a library burns. I'm watching it burn right to the ground.
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.
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.
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