It was one frayed rope thrown across the chasm between us. Not enough to get across, but maybe just enough to tell that it wasn't as wide as I'd originally thought.

As I handed her the bag, the old scars on my wrist throbbed with buried memories.

They were always walking away from him. But he never seemed able to walk away from them.

Rilke says: Verweilung, auch am Verstrautesten nicht, ist uns gegeben - We are not allowed to linger, even with what is most intimate.

we're watchers of this world aren't we? not players

As the hours crept by, the afternoon sunlight bleached all the books on the shelves to pale, gilded versions of themselves and warmed the paper and ink inside the covers so that the smell of unread words hung in the air.

It was possible that I'd thrown one too many Molotov cocktails over God's fence.