Love Weaves Itself From Hundreds Of Threads.

And I Told You: I Think Of A Photograph You Took Of Me, Up In Montreal. You Told Me To Jump In The Air, So In The Picture, My Feet Are Off The Ground. Later, I Asked You Why You Wanted Me To Do That, And You Told Me It Was The Only Way To Get Me To Forget About The Expression On My Face. You Were Right. I Am Completely Unposed, Completely Genuine. In My Mind’s Eye, I Picture Myself Like That, Reacting To You.

What Did It Matter To Me? Did I Think That By Making You Rational About One Thing, I Could Make You Rational About Everything? Maybe. Or Maybe I Just Wanted To Save You From Your Fears

That Word Again. Happy. It’s A Curse. The Pursuit Of Happiness Makes Us Deeply Unhappy. It’s A Trap.before Anything Else Happened, There Was Me In Bed, Thinking Of Who You Used To Be. I Don’t Want You To Think I Forgot.

And Who Am I To Blow Against The Wind?

The World Is Quieter Now. It Is Never Quiet, But It Can Get Quieter. What Strange Creatures We Are, To Find Silence Peaceful, When Permanent Silence Is The Thing We Most Dread. Nighttime Is Not That. Nighttime Still Rustles, Still Creaks And Whispers And Trembles In Its Throat. It Is Not Darkness We Fear, But Our Own Helplessness Within It. How Merciful To Have Been Granted The Other Senses.