“sometimes, what i see is a library in a rural community. all the tall shelves in the big open room. and the pencilsin a cup at circulation, gnawed on by the entire population.the books have lived here all along, belongingfor weeks at a time to one or another in the brief sequenceof family names, speaking (at night mostly) to a face,a pair of eyes. the most remarkable lies.”

“from time to time, i think of him watching mefrom over the top of his glasses, or eating candyfrom a jar. i remember thanking him each timethe session was done. but mostly what i seeis a human hand reaching down to lifta pebble from my tongue”

“time never stops, but does it end? and how many livesbefore take-off, before we find ourselves beyond ourselves, all glam-glow, all twinkle and gold?”

“we like to think of it as parallel to what we knowonly bigger. one man against the authorities.or one man against a city of zombies. one manwho is not, in fact, a man, sent to understandthe caravan of men now chasing him like red antslet loose down the pants of america. man on the run.”

“while the father storms through adjacent roomsranting with the force of kingdom come,not caring anymore what might snap us in its jaw”

“[...] the body is what we lean toward,tensing as it darts, dancing away.but it's the voice that enters us. evensaying nothing. even saying nothingover and over absently to itself”

“everything/ that ever was still is, somewhere”