Maybe all of these different possibilities exist at the same time, like each moment we live has a thousand other moments layered underneath it that look different.

A string of bright white buildinh, glistening like teeth over the slurping mouth of the ocean.

Maybe all of these different possibilities exist at the same time, like each moment we live has a thousand other moments layered underneath it that look different.

That was what her parents did not understand—and had never understood—about stories. Liza told herself storied as though she was weaving and knotting an endless rope. Then, no matter how dark or terrible the pit she found herself in, she could pull herself out, inch by inch and hand over hand, on the long rope of stories.

I've been so used to thinking of what the borders are keeping out that I haven't considered that they're also penning us in.

Alex loved books. He was the one who first introduced me to poetry. That's another reason I can't read anymore.

There were days I asked for it-prayed for it when I went to sleep. The belief that I would see you again, that I could find you-the hope for it-was the only thing that kept me going.