words

My memory begins with my anger.

in the beginning there was want. I can’t remember what came after that.

Who remembers what lurks in the heart of man?

Why is it always my own hands that hurt me?

He reached for the lamp, and darkness fell down from the ceiling. With it came a soft, senseless panic—I couldn’t see James anymore.

Baby, you’re a vampire You want blood and I promised I’m a bad liar With a savior complex

the lyrics, and the beats you could feel in your chest, and the mystery of early samples, recordings of recordings that gradually morphed, leaving a fossil record of every person who touched them.

So light exists only in her fist crammed & mourning in my throat.

I am so busy. I am practicing my new hobby of watching me become someone else. There is so much violence in reconstruction. Each minute is grisly, but I have to participate. I am building what I cannot break.

When it was dark, you always carried the sun in your hand for me.

Was I good at caring for Amma because of kindness? Or did I like caring for Amma because I have Adora’s sickness? I waver between the two, especially at night, when my skin begins to pulse. Lately, I’ve been leaning toward kindness.

Aren’t you glad that you reside in a hell and in disguise? Nobody yet everything, a pool to shed your memory

Don’t want no other shade of blue But you No other sadness in the world would do

Ghosts are guilt, ghosts are secrets, ghosts are regrets and failings. But most times... most times a ghost is a wish.

You live as long as the last person who remembers you, Bernard. I remembered you once before. So I remembered you again.

And if they thought her aimless, if they thought her a bit mad, let them. It meant they left her alone. Marya was not aimless, anyway. She was thinking.

It should be enough. To make something beautiful should be enough. It isn’t. It should be.

"True. I shall be satisfied." Though she wasn’t. Not nearly.

You realize, at last, that you can change without disappearing, that all you had to do was wait until the storm passes you over and you find that—yes—your name is still attached to a living thing.

but I think I’d rather keep the bullet.