The narrator blames the birds. And you want to blame the birds as well. I blamed the birds for a long time. But in this story everyone is hungry, even the birds. And at this point in the story so many things have gone wrong, so many bad decisions made, that it’s a wonder anyone would want to continue reading.

From the landscape: a sense of scale. From the dead: a sense of scale.

I wouldn’t kill your pony. I’d like to believe it, anyway. I’d like to believe I wouldn’t drag you out in to the woods and leave you there, either. So far, it hasn’t come up.

You see, I take the parts that I remember and stitch them back together to make a creature that will do what I say or love me back.

I don't know where I end and the world begins. My best guess? Skin. It's the only actual boundary between the body and the world, between a body and any other body.

You’re falling now. You’re swimming. This is not           harmless. You are not                     breathing.

We laugh & it pits the world against us.