You forget, time doesn't exist anymore. You gave it to me.

Needle and thread flesh and bone Spit and sinew, heartbreak is home. Your suture lines, they sparkle like diamonds Bright stars to light my confinement "Stitch.

Do you do that a lot? Move on?" "Maybe. But only because I travel a lot." She taps put a beat on the steering wheel, audible only to herseld. "Or maybe you travel a lot because it lets you move on." "Perhaps." ........ I look out the window. The jungle is everywhere. I look back at her. "Can you move on from something when you're not sure what it is you're moving on from?

Sleep would be so welcome. A warm blanket of black to erase everything else. Sleep without dreams. I've heard people talk about the sleep of the dead. Is that what death would feel like? The nicest, warmest, heaviest never-ending nap? If that's what it's like, I wouldn't mind. If that's what dying is like, I wouldn't mind that at all.

Sometimes you can only feel something by its absence. By the empty spaces it leaves behind.

Or maybe it's not a miracle. Maybe this is just life. When you open yourself up to it. When you put yourself in the path of it. When you say yes.

It takes certain kind of naiveté, or perhaps just stupidity, to know things will end and still hope otherwise.