We have not touched the stars, nor are we forgiven, which brings us back to the hero’s shoulders and the gentleness that comes, not from the absence of violence, but despite the abundance of it.

This is where the evening splits in half, Henry, love or death. Grab an end, pull hard, and make a wish.

Someone is digging your grave right now.

The way you slam your body into mine reminds me I’m alive, but monsters are always hungry, darling.

...you're waiting because you thought it would follow, you thought there would be some logic, perhaps, something to pull it all together but here we are in the weeds again, here we are in the bowels of the thing: your world doesn't make sense.

I sleep. I dream. I make up things that I would never say. I say them very quietly.

I swear, I end up feeling empty, like you've taken something out of me and I have to search my body for scars.