He looks sad. Or maybe that's just how he looks when he isn't doing something else with his face.

When we met I was wrecked, blasted, and damned, and I am slowly pulling myself together because I can see that you are a human being and I would like to be one, too.

I wish for a moment that time would lift me out of this day, and into some more benign one. But then I feel guilty for wanting to avoid the sadness; dead people need us to remember them, even if it eats us, even if all we can do is say "I'm sorry" until it is as meaningless air.

I sometimes end up in dangerous situations, and I come back to you broken and messed up, and you worry about me when I'm gone. It's like marrying a policeman.

Sleep is my lover now, my forgetting, my opiate, my oblivion.

I'm bored with knitting. I've taken up arson.

We are often insane with happiness. We are also very unhappy for reasons neither of us can do anything about. Like being separated.