Virginia Woolf, from a diary entry featured in “A Writer’s Diary” Clarice Lispector, from “A Breath of Life” Patti Smith, from “Devotion” Elena Ferrante, from “Incidental Inventions” Marguerite Duras, from “Écrire”

Pool poetry

                                           a Mercedes, someone’s Scissorhands                                            shrubs, trio-headed howls loudening

the clean suburb.

“I feel like I’m always realising that I’ve been tricked into the person that I am. There’s a gradual undoing that’s bringing me closer to who I want to be.”

It’s like you feel homesick for a place that doesn’t even exist. Maybe it’s like this rite of passage, you know. You won’t ever have this feeling again until you create a new idea of home for yourself, you know, for your kids, for the family you start, it’s like a cycle or something. I don’t know, but I miss the idea of it. Maybe that’s all family really is. A group of people who miss the same imaginary place.