The sky makes a screen with nothing projected on it. You inevitably think to yourself, "I'm waiting," even as you get up to leave.
Donate whom you can. Meet what you would.
A row of trees has entered into a period of mourning. The ants hardly notice.
Content is form's sweetheart. Content, meanwhile, has a secret crush on the reader.
Next to your arm there will always seem to be something written.
You will leave your home and speak to strangers in order to lose your accent.
In the darkness the trees seem to become white.
Every placement is a gesture; the exact address of something not there.
The bed, the kitchen table, the attic, the carpet, the computer: pieces of the new domestic alphabet. Use it to spell the name of the thing you desire most.
If I could remember the many other things I wanted to say to you, I would be happy.