Do we hate paradise so much we need to make sure it becomes a trash heap?

Like how stars might sound. Or moons But not mountains. Too floaty for mountains. It's a sound like one planet singing to another, high stretched and full of different voices starting at different notes and sloping down to other different notes but all weaving together in a rope of sound that's sad but not sad and slow but not slow and all singing one word. One word.

It is a true story, the monster said. Many things that are true feel like a cheat.

Life equals running and when we stop running maybe that's how we'll know life is finally finished.

Now that I've seen her, I can't stop seeing her.

Hope may be the thing that pulls you forward, may be the thing that keeps you going, but that it's dangerous, that it's painful and risky, that it's making a dare in the world and when has the world ever let us win a dare?

You love him," he says. Not an asking, just a fact. "I do," I say. Also a fact.