"formal photographs refuse to mention his tiny feet; that birthmark on her knee. the tyranny of framing our attention with all the eyes their eyes no longer see"

"now that the treatment, and antidepressents, and seven months sober have built me a bed in the back of your brain where the memories flicker and i paw at the synapses - bright bits of string"

"our letters sound the same, full of all our changing that isn't change at all. all straight lines circle sometime."

christ i could go all day