I'm bored with knitting. I've taken up arson.
What is more basic than the need to be known? It is the entirety of intimacy, the elixir of love, this knowing.
The cure might be worse than the problem
But as usual there's no answer to this. As usual, that's just how it is.
Absence can be present, like a damaged nerve, like a dark bird.
He is coming, and I am here.
I'm sorry. I didn't know you were coming or I'd have cleaned up a little more. My life, I mean, not just the apartment.
we both smile and we are conspirators.
Sleep is my lover now, my forgetting, my opiate, my oblivion.
The pain has left but I know that it has not gone far, that it is sulking somewhere in a corner or under the bed and it will jump out when I least expect it.
I feel that I am everything to her.
It's dark now and I am very tired. I love you, always. Time is nothing.
Why is love intensified by absence?
Maybe I'm dreaming you. Maybe you're dreaming me; maybe we only exist in each other's dreams and every morning when we wake up we forget all about each other.
I wanted someone to love who would stay, stay and be there, always.
It's hard being left behind. It's hard to be the one who stays.
I go to sleep alone, and wake up alone. I take walks. I work until I'm tired. I watch the wind play with the trash that's been under the snow all winter. Everything seems simple until you think about it. Why is love intensified by abscence?
There is only one page left to write on. I will fill it with words of only one syllable. I love. I have loved. I will love.
We are often insane with happiness. We are also very unhappy for reasons neither of us can do anything about. Like being separated.
He thanked her and left the house in the mood of a shipwrecked man who has allowed the rescue ship to pass him by.
I won't ever leave you, even though you're always leaving me.
I don't want to boss anyone and I don't want to be bossed.
My reflection in the mirror shows me pink and puffy. I thought pregnant women were to supposed to glow. I am not glowing.
She smiles in an exhausted but warm sort of way, as though she is a brilliant sun in some other galaxy.
When the woman you live with is an artist, every day is a surprise.
I keep myself busy. Time goes faster that way.
There's always world enough and time.
Each spine was an encapsulated memory, each book represented hours, days of pleasure, of immersion into words.
When it's over you look up: the world looks the same but you are somehow different and that feeling lingers for days.
When we met I was wrecked, blasted, and damned, and I am slowly pulling myself together because I can see that you are a human being and I would like to be one, too.
Now I wonder if it means that the future is a place, or like a place, that I could go to; that is go to in some way other than just getting older.
Listen, sometimes when you finally find out, you realize that you were much better off not knowing.
Chaos is more freedom; in fact, total freedom.
I guess no matter what your family is like, you're not surprised.
You can still be cool when you're dead. In fact, it's much easier, because you aren't getting old and fat and losing your hair.
There was only the cemetery itself, spread out in the moonlight like a soft grey hallucination, a stony wilderness of Victorian melancholy.
In fairy tales it's always the children who have the fine adventures. The mothers have to stay at home and wait for the children to fly in the window.
I have a sort of Christmas- morning sense of the library as a big box full of beautiful books.
It's funny how we like labels. If I ever have a bookstore, I'm not going to put any labels on the sections.
I look at him, look at the book, remember, this book, this moment, the first book I ever loved