It wasn't awful to be dead. The stillness would almost be a relief. She wouldn't want pain, she wouldn't want to be wounded or mutilated. She could never shoot herself or jump off a building. But being dead wasn't unthinkable.

Who can judge another man's suffering?

I thought how tenuous the links were between mother and children between friends family things you think are eternal. Everything could be lost more easily than anyone could imagine.

I wanted to hear what she was saying. I wanted to smell that burnt midnight again, I wanted to feel that wind. It was a secret wanting, like a song I couldn't stop humming, or loving someone I could never have. No matter where I went, my compass pointed west. I would always know what time it was in California.

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

Don't hoard the past. Don't cherish anything. Burn it. The artist is the phoenix who burns to emerge.

Loneliness is the human condition. Cultivate it. The way it tunnels into you allows your soul room to grow.