Lines like “If their identity is based on feelings, and their feelings are always changing, then their identity is always changing”, though embarrassing, gave me this sweet sense of self-revelation that made me feel relieved and enlightened all at the same time.
These plants simply grow, unimpeded, in ways that suit people and creatures alike.
I watch over my friend’s shoulder as they make mistakes and then correct them, reassured somehow that typos aren’t just a modern malady.
Subway is a communion of scattered purposes.
Is there an instinctive shock response that would incapacitate any medieval monk who went on YouTube?
I never thought I would entrench myself deep enough anywhere to forge friendships with people who I don’t want to know my real name or face and whose lives I only have the slightest inkling of.
I was privately affirming truths, moments I felt seen by someone who spoke the words of my heart, and serendipitous findings.
On other nights, Dad would come out to campfires we were so fond of building, cracking open a big can of baked beans to nestle into the coals on the edge of the pit.
It’s a pitiful, endearing, and slightly Dickensian image: two pale, scrawny siblings with oversized guitar cases strapped to their backs, walking slowly along a quiet street.
Miracles are rare and precious, and the one I’ve begged and pleaded and soaked my pillow with tears and snot for hasn’t come in nearly three years—and counting.
