I would have done anything for him. Maybe that was my sickness. We made love in nothing places and turned the lights off. It felt like crying. We could not look at each other. It always had to be from behind. Like that first time. And I knew he wasn't thinking of me. He squeezed my sides so hard, and pushed so hard. Like he was trying to push me through to somewhere else. Why does anyone ever make love?

I could not believe in a God that would challenge faith like this.

Cruelty...prefers abstraction. Some have tried to resolved this gap by hunting or butchering an animal themselves, as if those experiences might somehow legitimize the endeavor of eating animals. This is very silly. Murdering someone would surely prove that you are capable of killing, but it woudln't be the most reasonable way to understand why you should or shouldn't do it.

Not responding is a response - we are equally responsible for what we don't do.

I kept thinking how they were all names of dead people, and how names are basically the only thing dead people keep.

I want to talk about God in a literary way. But I think I would have a very hard time praying to God.

Why does watching a dog be a dog fill one with happiness?