Thus drivers inching southward will see the phalanx of birds heading west as one spontaneous gesture.

The fear that all this will end. The fear that it won't.

The ghosts swarm. They speak as one person. Each has left something undone.

We are all full of discourses that we only half understand and half mean.

I am attracted to looking at the different things language can mean even in one sometimes quite ordinary utterance. Writing is partly about listening closely to yourself as you think or compose and being aware of the different tensions and weights among the words, the different directions any one of them could lead. I like to play with the multiplicity and instability of meaning partly out of a sense of adventure, to see where that takes me and partly in a whistling past the graveyard kind of way because, of course, sensing stable meaning fall away can be scary.

Thus drivers inching southward will see the phalanx of birds heading west as one spontaneous gesture.

The crowd is made of little gods, and there is still no heaven.