We own the country we grow up in, or we are aliens and invaders.

For echo is the soul of the voice exciting itself in hollow places.

So the books for the Englishman, as he listened intently or not, had gaps of plot like sections of a road washed out by storms, missing incidents as if locusts had consumed a section of tapestry, as if plaster loosened by the bombing had fallen away from a mural at night.

In Canada pianos needed water. You opened up the back and left a full glass of water, and a month later the glass would be empty. Her father had told her about the dwarfs who drank only at pianos, never in bars.

How does this happen? To fall in love and be disassembled.

Death means you are in the third person.

We own the country we grow up in, or we are aliens and invaders.