Some cleric putting a match to her. /Neither of them looks happy about it. /Once lit, she'll burn like a book, /like a book that was ever finished, /like a locked-up library.

Happiness is a garden walled with glass: there's no way in or out.

I write as if I've lived a lot of things I haven't lived.

The future of the codex book, with pages and so forth? A platform for transmitting narratives. There are others.

There's blood, a taste I remember. It tastes of orange popsicles, penny gumballs, red licorice, gnawed hair, dirty ice.

A language is everything you do.

What we share may be a lot like a traffic accident but we get one another. We are survivors of each other. We have been shark to one another, but also lifeboat. That counts for something.