England offers new comforts. I could write a novel there.
You cannot regard your own life with objective curiosity all the time.
I’ll never speak to God again.
Sometimes I nursed starfish alive in jam jars of seawater and watched them grow back lost arms. On this day, this awful birthday of otherness, my rival, somebody else, I flung the starfish against a stone. Let it perish.
Slowly, slowly, catch the monkey.
O heart, such disorganization!