I Think Of Novels As Houses. You

Holding Hands, For Example, Is A Way To Remember How It Feels To Say Nothing Together.

She Was Gone, And All That Was Left Was The Space Where You'd Grown Around Her, Like A Tree That Grows Around A Fence.

There's No Match For The Silence Of God.

Herman Slipped His Hand Into Mine, And I Thought, An Average Of Seventy-four Species Become Extinct Every Day, Which Was One Good Reason But Not The Only One To Hold Someone's Hand, And The Next Thing That Happened Was We Kissed Each Other, And I Found I Knew How, And I Felt Happy And Sad In Equal Parts, Because I Knew That I Was Falling In Love, But It Wasn't With Him.

Because You Can Get Free Of Everything Except The Space Where Things Have Been