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

Why is love intensified by absence?

Chaos is more freedom; in fact, total freedom. But no meaning.

I think about my mother singing after lunch on a Summer afternoon, twirling in blue dress across the floor of her dressing room

Long ago, men went to sea, and women waited for them, standing on the edge of the water, scanning the horizon for the tiny ship. Now I wait for Henry. He vanishes unwillingly, without warning. I wait for him. Each moment that I wait feels like a year, an eternity. Each moment is as slow and transparent as glass. Through each moment I can see infinite moments lined up, waiting. Why has he gone where I cannot follow?

In the dim light of the computer screen he seemed otherworldly; Julia thought him beautiful, though she knew it was the beauty of damage.

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