She was a girl with a mountain to climb.
One wild card was yet to be played.
The human child – so much cannier at times than the stupefyingly ponderous adult.
Somewhere in all the snow, she could see her broken heart, in two pieces.
You don’t shoot a dog when it is already dead.
Sometimes I just survive. But sometimes I stand on the rooftop of my existence, arms stretched out, begging for more.
You can do anything when it’s not real. When it is real, nothing breaks your fall. Nothing gets between you and the ground.
There are moments when you can only stand and stare, watching the world forget you as you remove yourself from it – when you overcome it and cease to exist as the person you were.
Things always seem to glide away. They come to you, stay a moment, then leave again.
If you can’t imagine it, think clumsy silence. Think bits and pieces of floating despair. And drowning in a train.
I just know that right now, we want to be proud. For once. We want to take the struggle and rise above it. We want to frame it, live it, survive it. We want to put it in our mouths and taste it and never forget it, because it makes us strong.
I traveled the globe as always, handing souls to the conveyor belt of eternity.
The thrill of being ignored!
Can a wolfe be beautiful?
Papa was a man with silver eyes, not dead ones. Papa was an accordion! But his bellows were all empty. Nothing went in and nothing came out.
She even touches Jimmy’s face on the photos, and I see what it is to love someone like Milla loved that man. Her fingertips are made of love.
When he moves, a streetlight stabs him, and the words flow out like blood.
I want to talk to him. I want to ask him about that girl and if he loved her and still misses her.
You’re far from this. This story is just another few hundred pages of your mind.
Crowds of questions stream through me like lines of people exiting a soccer ground or a concert. They push and shove and trip. Some make their way around. Some remain in their seats, waiting for their opportunity.