It is Earth’s final snowfall / and everyone is here.
There’s a common misconception that escapist fiction is far removed from reality, but I would argue that it is simply a different kind of truth about another aspect of reality.
Promise me you won’t write a poem about me.
Don’t worry, I said, you’re the sea, and it’s impossible for the sea to drown. There’s nothing big enough for you.
Talk to me. Make me feel male.
But one is a writer, and one is a hero, because it is the only thing they could possibly be.
She knew how to read a newspaper article when she was five; now she cannot tell Chinese from hieroglyphics.
As I walked home, I felt it—little wings against my lungs.
Two houses, virtually identical in structure and appearance. Odd, right?
At night he could hear her rustling the curtain. He would whisper his questions to her.