All I desired was to walk upon such an earth that had no maps.

But we were interested in how our lives could mean something to the past. We sailed into the past.

A postcard. Neat handwriting fills the rectangle. Half my days I cannot bear to touch you. The rest of my time I feel like it doesn’t matter if I will ever see you again. It isn’t the morality, it’s how much you can bear. No date. No name attached.

All I ever wanted was a world without maps.

There is the hidden presence of others in us, even those we have known briefly. We contain them for the rest of our lives, at every border that we cross.

Water is the exile, carried back in cans and flasks, the ghost between your hands and your mouth.

He will hear the rain before he feels it, a clicking on the dry grass, on the olive leaves.