More and more I feel like a letter—deposited here, collected there. But a letter addressed to no one.

and each of his voices left his body in a different colored soul and floated up towards the sun still singing.

The heart with letters on it shining like a light bulb through the trim hole painted in the chest, art history.

The problem with meditating is I generally go to sleep, and that's because I'm doing it wrong.

After everything that's happened, how can the world still be so beautiful? Because it is.

But I began then to think of time as having a shape, something you could see, like a series of liquid transparencies, one laid on top of another.

It's clear, it's fresh, like a mint candy.