Scars Are Memory. Like Sutures. They Stitch

I'd Never Understood The Injunction Not To Regret Anything, Couldn't See How That Wasn't Cowardice.

In Time, In Time They Tell Me, I'll Not Feel So Bad. I Don't Want Time To Heal Me. There's A Reason I'm Like This. I Want Time To Set Me Ugly And Knotted With Loss Of You, Marking Me. I Won't Smooth You Away. I Can't Say Goodbye.

Books Are Always Obviously Having Conversations With Other Books, And Some Times They're Amiable And Sometimes Not.

In The Deepest Places, Where Physical Norms Collapse Under The Crushing Water, Bodies Still Fall Softly Through The Dark, Days After Their Vessels Have Capsized. They Decay On Their Long Journey Down. Nothing Will Hit The Black Sand At The Bottom Of The World But Algae-covered Bones.

London Is An Endless Skirmish Between Angles And Emptiness.