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I am the drying meadow; you the unspoken apology; he is the fluctuating distance between mother and son.

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Apology Baby Distance Drying Fluctuate Life Mother Son Unspoken

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Kissing George was a little like rolling in caramel after spending years surviving off rice sticks.
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It is all about numbers. It is all about sequence. It’s the mathematical logic of being alive.
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I give boring people something to discuss over corn.
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We’re all getting too smart. Our brains are just getting bigger and bigger, and the world dries up and dies when there’s too much thought and not enough heart.
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Large meadows are lovely for picnics and romping, but they are for the lighter feelings. Meadows do not make me want to write.
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It was a fleeting statement, one I didn’t think she’d hold on to; after all, she had birthed us alone, diapered and fed us, helped us with homework, kissed and hugged us, poured her love into us.
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And the warmth of the music inside her, did she believe, for even one glorious second, that her passion had arrived?
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But the sky is interesting, it changes all the time.
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Pouring over me, but it was a different kind, siphoned from a different, and tamer, body of water. I was her darling daughter; Joseph was her it.
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I was right at the edge of their circle, like the tail of a Q…
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I felt the crumpled paper that had taken the place of my lungs expand as if released from a fist.
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With my hand in his, I looked at all the apartment buildings with rushes of love, peering in the wide streetside windows that revealed living rooms painted in dark burgandies and matte reds.
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The wine glasses are empty except for that one undrinkable red spot at the bottom.
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Language is the ticket to plot and character, after all, because both are built out of language.
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But what I kept wondering about is this: that first second when she felt her skirt burning, what did she think?
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My eyelids are my own private cave, he murmured. That I can go to anytime I want.
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