The little girl skipped by under the wrinkled oak leaves and held fast to a replica of herself.

Do you like me?” No answer. Silence bounced, fell off his tongue and sat between us and clogged my throat. It slaughtered my trust. It tore cigarettes out of my mouth. We exchanged blind words, and I did not cry, I did not beg, but blackness filled my ears, blackness lunged in my heart, and something that had been good, a sort of kindly oxygen, turned into a gas oven.

The grass as bristly and stout as chives and me wondering when the ground will break and me wondering how anything fragile survives

And what of the dead? They lie without shoes in the stone boats. They are more like stone than the sea would be if it stopped. They refuse to be blessed, throat, eye and knucklebone.

They [daisies] are my favorite flower. There is something innocent and vulnerable about them as if they thanked you for admiring them.

Somebody who should have been born is gone.

I am alone here in my own mind. There is no map and there is no road. It is one of a kind just as yours is.