We keep wanting to save those who are forlorn in this world. Itโs a male habit.
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 doesnโt matter if I will ever see you again. It isnโt the morality, itโs how much you can bear. No date. No name attached.
We are expanded by tears, we are told, not reduced by them.
Death means you are in the third person.
...the heart is an organ of fire.
Here. Where I am anonymous and alone in a white room with no history and no parading. So I can make something unknown in the shape of this room. Where I am King of Corners.