words

I like it when it rains hard. It sounds like white noise everywhere, which is like silence but not empty.

I cannot escape the feeling that, below the surface, something is breaking.

Here he was, slapping him five, grabbing his shoulder, and talking too loud in a performance of gregariousness. A walking flinch.

For the hyphenated

He was utterly still, the type of quiet that I had thought could not belong to humans, a stilling of everything but breath and pulse—like a deer, listening for the hunter’s bow.

“I feel like I could eat the world raw.”

That would be like the lamb handing a knife to the butcher.

“Do not let what you gained this day be so easily lost.”