The architecture of my sister's thinking, now phantom. I fall down stairs that are nothing but air.

Remember how it was when we kissed? Armfuls and armfuls of light thrown right at us. A rope dropping down from the sky. How can the word love and the word life even fit in the mouth?

It's such a colossal effort not to be haunted by what's lost, but to be enchanted by what was.

We wish with our hands, that's what we do as artists.

When I'm with him, there is someone with me in my house of grief, someone who knows its architecture as I do, who can walk with me, from room to sorrowful room, making the whole rambling structure of wind and emptiness not quite as scary, as lonely as it was before.

grief is a house that disappears each time someone knocks at the door or rings the bell a house that blows into the air at the slightest gust that buries itself deep in the ground while everyone is sleeping

Who wants to know that the person you love and need the most can just vanish forever