Keep a little fire burning; however small, however hidden.

Things separate from their stories have no meaning. They are only shapes. Of a certain size and color. A certain weight. When their meaning has become lost to us they no longer have even a name. The story on the other hand can never be lost from its place in the world for it is that place.

When he went back to the fire he knelt and smoothed her hair as she slept and he said if he were God he would have made the world just so and no different.

How does a man decide in what order to abandon his life?

He can give me what you cannot. Death is not a lover. Oh yes, he is.

There is no forgiveness. For women. A man may lose his honor and regain it again. But a woman cannot. She cannot.

All progressions from a higher to a lower order are marked by ruins and mystery and a residue of nameless rage.