I realized I was on a something island. 'How did I get here,' I wondered, surrounded by Nothing, "and how can I get back?

She was with me. She did all of those things and so many more, things I would never tell anyone, and she never even loved me. Now that’s love.

She was not crying Which surprised me very much But I understand now That she had found places For her melancholy That were behind more masks Than only her eyes

She wanted nothing more than someone to miss, to touch, with whom to speak like a child, with whom to be a child.

Or perhaps a widow found him and took him in: brought him an easy chair, changed his sweater every morning, shaved his face until the hair stopped growing, took him faithfully to bed with her every night, whispered sweet nothings into what was left of his ear, laughed with him over black coffee, cried with him over yellowing pictures, talked greenly about having kids of her own, began to miss him before she became sick, left him everything in her will, thought of only him as she died, always knew he was fiction but believed in him anyway.

I want an infinitely blank book and the rest of time.

I shook my tambourine the whole time, because it helped me remember that even though I was going through different neighborhoods, I was still me.