I’m not saying that everything is survivable. Just that everything except the last thing is.”

“But then again, if you don’t imagine, nothing ever happens at all.” Imagining isn’t perfect. You can’t get all the way inside someone else. I could never have imagined Margo’s anger at being found, or the story she was writing over. But imagining being someone else, or the world being something else, is the only way in. It is the machine that

“Forever is composed of nows,” she says. I have nothing to say to that; I am just chewing through it when Margo says, “Emily Dickinson. Like I said, I’m doing a lot of reading.”

congenital

I could stand up and go to her and kiss her. I could. But there is still too much to be ruined.

What a treacherous thing it is to believe that a person is more than a person.

suburbanality

halcyon

schleps