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.

You have to see the miracles for there to be miracles.

When he plays all the flowers swap colors and years and decades and centuries of rain pour back into the sky

In one split second I saw everything I could be, everything I want to be. And all that I'm not.

This is the secret I kept from you, Bails, from myself too: I think I liked that Mom was gone, that she could be anybody, anywhere, doing anything. I liked that she was our invention, a woman living on the last page of the story with only what we imagined spread out before her. I liked that she was ours, alone.

If bad luck knows who you are, become someone else.