Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite.

If we cry more tears we will ruin the land with salt; instead let's praise that which would distract us with despair. Make a song for death, a song for yellow teeth and bad breath

I was born with eyes that can never close.

I listen to the gunfire we cannot hear, and begin this journey with the light of knowing the root of my own furious love.

Remember that you are this universe and that this universe is you.

My sister accommodates me, never reproaches me with her doctrine, never tries to change me. She accepts and loves me, despite our differences.

My generation is now the door to memory. That is why I am remembering.