Sublime

bacchanalia

I’m not long for this world. I’m not long for this world. That’s something I grew accustomed to hearing my grandmother avow while waiting for instance for the kettle to boil.

I wasn't fatter or thinner; I'd incarnated. Of course I had always been in here, but so gingerly, like a person never wanting to unpack even though they're obviously going to be staying awhile. Now my brain was spread out over my whole body, not just in my head.

palimpsest

They meant nothing to me, but I liked to see his handwriting beside mine, sometimes overlapping mine. It was unlined paper. I wrote with a fountain pen. I still do.