If this was a sandalwood pyre she would have thrown herself in and this paper she'd become would have caught fire and she and him could sail away like two birds.

A cliche is everything you've ever heard of.

I imagined my soul taking in these words like silicated water in the Petrified Forest, turning my wood to patterned agate. I liked it when my mother shaped me this way. I thought clay must feel happy in the good potter's hand.

here, here is my dark world. you carry it for a change. im out

It's all I ever really wanted, that revelation. The possibility of fixed stars.

Although she was giddy with exhaustion, sleep was a lover who refused to be touched.

A cliché is like a coin that has been handled too much. Once language has been overly handled, it no longer leaves a clear imprint.