Each spine was an encapsulated memory, each book represented hours, days of pleasure, of immersion into words.

That's what alcoholics do. It's in their job description: fall apart and then keep falling apart.

She looks up at me, still rocking. “Henry . . . why did me decide to do this again?” “Supposedly when it’s over they hand you a baby and let you keep it.” “Oh yeah.” --Wednesday, September 5, 2001

That’s the thing about living vicariously; it’s so much faster than actual living. In a few minutes we’ll be worrying about names for the children.

But you make me happy. It's living up to being happy that's the difficult part.

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

I'm living under water. Everything seems slow and far away. I know there's a world up there, a sunlit quick world where time runs like dry sand through an hourglass, but down here, where I am, air and sound and time and feeling are thick and dense.