“Some days each breath just lie stuck in your chest, you know?”

And I held onto hope. Like a dear old friend.

But I know courage. It is never lost.

Even the rain could be the answer to your prayers.

You and that love you carry. Like fresh rivers. Like new poetry.

We are ever blossoming.

Love shouldn’t be as fickle as the rain. But an ever flowing torrent.

Remember forgiveness; a kind exhale.

I think there is miracle always spilling into something.

I know the light, but I cannot see it.

Let us be the impossible.

Honestly, I just want to love without the fear of losing anything.

Yes, there are wounds but we are not conquered.

When you hold my hand and it feels like a fresh dream.

There is always a bit of love whispering from somewhere.

But when has worry ever produced a miracle?

But I must admit. I am desperate for hope.

Most of our childhood is stored not in photos, but in certain biscuits, lights of day, smells, textures of carpet.

The first matter that the slave will be brought to account for on the Day of Judgment is the prayer.

Anyone who’s had a shower and hasn’t ingested illegal narcotics within a couple of days stands out on a bench in the courthouse.

Don’t I yearn for the days when a draw across the throat made f**king resolution.

As a wise man once said, “April Fools Day is for amateurs. You NEVER need an excuse to mess with people’s heads.”

So that was a joke that I continue up to this very day.

We start to realize that there are anodynes in life that help us through the day.

I would come home and she would tell me about her life that day and all her problems and I remember saying to her, look, you really got me through this picture because I would shed everything when I came home.