I put my hand on him. Touching him has always been important to me, it was something I lived for. I never could explain why. Little, nothing touches, my fingers against his shoulder, the outsides of our thighs touching as we squeeled together on the bus. I couldnt explain it, but I needed it. Sometimes I imagined stiching all of our little touches together. How many hundreds of thousands of fingers brushing against each other does it take to make love?

Words are capable of making experience more vivid, and also of organizing it. They can scare us, and they can comfort us.

If we are not given the option to live without violence, we are given the choice to center our meals around harvest or slaughter, husbandry or war. We have chosen slaughter. We have chosen war. That's the truest version of our story of eating animals. Can we tell a new story?

I think and think and think, I‘ve thought myself out of happiness one million times, but never once into it.

Is that growing old? Or is it something worse?

I desperately wish I had my tambourine with me now, because even after everything I'm still wearing heavy boots, and sometimes it helps to play a good beat

I'm interested in the kind of religion that makes life harder. I'm not so interested in the comforting kind of religion.