If Utopian Fiction Became The New Trend,

My First Instinct Is To Push You Until You Break Just To See How Hard I Have To Press.

That Dot Covers All The Places We've Ever Been. You Could Cut That Piece Of Land Out Of The Ground And Sing It Into This Ocean And No One Would Even Notice. I Feel That Fear Again, The Fear Of My Own Size. 'right. So?' 'so? So Everything I've Ever Worried About Or Said Or Done, How Can It Possibly Matter?' He Shakes His Head. 'it Doesn't.' 'of Course It Does,' I Say, 'all That Land Is Filled With People, Every One Of Them Different, And The Things They Do To Each Other Matter.

I Think About Pressing Myself Against Him, But I Can't, Because All Our Secrets Would Keep A Space Between Us.

Life's Something We Already Understand. Death Is A Mystery.

It Was Him Or Me. I Chose Me. But I Feel Dead Too.