He's stuck with me and I'm stuck with him. We're stuck. That's what growing up is all about, I guess.

That's the thing about best friends. That's what they do. They keep you from spinning off the edge.

The first one, we’ll name Blue.

Through wind, and tempest, storm, and rain; The calm shall be buried inside of me; A warm stone, heavy and dry; The root, the source, a weapon against pain

Stupid how the mind will try to distract itself.

It was a bird. A bird struggling through stickiness: a bird coated in paint, floundering in its nest, splashing color everywhere. Red. Red. Red. Dozens of them: black feathers coated thickly with crimson-colored paint, fluttering among the branches. Red means run.

It's going to be okay. Words that mean nothing. really, just sounds intoned into vastness and darkness, little scrabbling attempts to latch on to something when we're falling.