And they would all smile at the beauty of destruction.

Outside is dark. The kitchen light is loud. It deafens me as I walk towards it.

If you can't imagine it, think clumsy silence. Think bits and pieces of floating despair. And drowning in a train.

July 24, 6:03 A.M. The laundry was warm and the rafters were firm, and Michael Holzapfel jumped from the chair as if it were a cliff... Michael Holzapfel knew what he was doing. He killed himself for wanting to live.

When we move apart, she looks at me again, till a small tear lifts itself up in her eye. It trips out to find a wrinkle and follows it down.

Do we spend most of our days trying to remember or to forget? Do we spend most of our time running towards or away from our lives?

I just want to write someone’s favorite book