I basked in you; I loved you, helplessly, with a boundless tongue-tied love. And death doesn't prevent me from loving you. Besides, in my opinion you aren't dead. (I know dead people, and you are not dead.)

I believe one day the distance between myself and God will / disappear.

Its hard for me to grasp that I might somehow be my fathers equal in any way.

The humiliation I go through/when I think of my past/can only be described as grace./We are created by being destroyed.

The long silences need to be loved, perhaps more than the words which arrive to describe them in time.

literature will lose, sunlight will win, don't worry.

Should each individual snowflake be held accountable for the avalanche?