I lay there silently, hoarding my small dignity. I did not ask about the gate or the closet. I did not question the bedtime ritual where, on the cold bathroom tiles, I was spread out daily and examined for flaws. I did not know that my bones, those solids, those pieces of sculpture would not splinter.

Fee-fi-fo-fum - Now I'm borrowed. Now I'm numb.

The snow has quietness in it; no songs, no smells, no shouts or traffic. When I speak my own voice shocks me.

We talked death with burned-up intensity, both of us drawn to it like moths to an electric light bulb. Sucking on it!

... a starving man doesn't ask what the meal is.

Love your self's self where it lives.

The place I live in is a kind of maze and I keep seeking the exit or the home.