Ignoring isn’t the same as ignorance, you have to work at it.

You're dead, Cordelia.' No I'm not. 'Yes you are. You're dead. Lie down.

I tell, therefore you are.

We pulled the seeds out and scattered them on their flossy parachutes, leaving only the leathery brownish yellow tongue, soft as the inside of an elbow.

I don't want to see anyone. I lie in the bedroom with the curtains drawn and nothingness washing over me like a sluggish wave. Whatever is happening to me is my own fault. I have done something wrong, something so huge I can't even see it, something that's drowning me. I am inadequate and stupid, without worth. I might as well be dead.

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

The act of making a photograph is less a question of what is being looked at than how.