The Part I Enjoy Most Is Not

Margo Always Loved Mysteries. And In Everything That Came Afterward, I Could Never Stop Thinking That Maybe She Loved Mysteries So Much That She Became One.

Love Is Just A Shout In The Void.

Writing Does Not Resurrect. It Buries.

And Then It Was The Kind Of Dark Your Eyes Never Adjust To.

I Was Struck By An Awful Thought, The Kind That Cannot Be Taken Back Once It Escapes Into The Open Air Of Consciousness; It Seemed To Me That This Was Not A Place You Go To Live. It Was A Place You Go To Die.