One illusion is as good as another.

I remember every single spot of light that ever gouged a shadow beside your bones.

A southern moon is a sodden moon, and sultry. When it swamps the fields and the rustling sandy roads and the sticky honeysuckle hedges in its sweet stagnation, your fight to hold on to reality is like a protestation against a first waft of ether.

One illusion is as good as another.

Nobody has ever measured, not even poets, how much the heart can hold.

The sky lay over the city like a map showing the strata of things and the big full moon toppled over in a furrow like the abandoned wheel of a gun carriage on a sunset field of battle and the shadows walked like cats and I looked into the white and ghostly interior of things and thought of you and I looked on their structural outsides and thought of you and was lonesome.

Look closer and you'll see something extraordinary, mystifying, something real and true. We have never been what we seemed.