Telling The Truth Is A Beautiful Act

I Don’t Know Where The Universe Came From Or What Happens To Creatures When They Die. I Don’t Know If The Whole Thing’s An Unravelling Accident Or An Inscrutable Design. I Don’t Know How One Should Live—but I Know That One Should Live, If One Can Possibly Bear It.

Words Betrayed Her: Beautiful Butterflies In Her Mind; Dead Moths When She Opened Her Mouth For Their Release Into The World.

One Develops An Instinct For Letting Silence Do The Heavy Lifting. In The Three, Four, Five Seconds That Passed Without Either Of Us Speaking, The Many Ways The Conversation Could Go Came And Went Like Time-lapse Film Of Flowers Blooming And Dying.

Life, Like The Boring Drunk At The Office Party, Keeps Seeking You Out, Leaning On You, Killing You With Pointless Yarns And Laughing Bad-breathed In Your Face At Its Own Unfunny Jokes.

Home Pulls. It Draws You Back To Tell You You Don't Belong.