commonplace journal

Carol looked at her. “How do you become a poet?” “By feeling things—too much, I suppose,” Therese answered conscientiously.

“I guess. But I can’t really imagine the sun not rising tomorrow.” A crease forms between her eyebrows as she puzzles out a response. “Can you imagine it rising on a world without a reaping?”

Perhaps I might experiment with a little violence.

Thinking of the dead who have so shaped me, but did not get to see where it was all going.

What is a monster but a creature of agency?

The falls said something to me like You are flesh, in no uncertain terms.