Our love has been the thread through the labyrinth, the net under the high-wire walker, the only real thing in this strange life of mine that I could ever trust.

Love you..." Henry-" Always..." Oh God oh God-" World enough..." No!" And time..." Henry!

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

He said something interesting: he said that he thinks there is only free will when you are in time, in the present. He says in the past we can only do what we did, and we can only be there if we were there.

When somebody is that patient, you have to feel grateful, and then you want to hurt them. Does that make any sense?

There is only one page left to write on. I will fill it with words of only one syllable. I love. I have loved. I will love.

Outside it's a perfect spring night. We stand on the sidewalk in front of our apartment building, and Henry takes my hand, and I look at him, and I raise our joined hands and Henry twirls me around and soon we're dancing down Belle Plaine Avenue, no music but the sound of cars whoosing by and our own laughter, and the smell of cherry blossoms that fall like snow on the sidewalk as we dance underneath the tress.