we live with the dead people in the land of the dead.
eurydice was a great musician. orpheus was his wife.
she can’t speak your language anymore. she talks in the language of dead people now.
it’s a very quiet language.
listen to her the way you would listen to your own daughter if she died too young and tried to speak to you across long distances.
there was a roar, and a coldness.
how strange. i don’t remember.
it was horrible to see his face when i died.
i forgot his name. i forgot all the names.
what happiness it would be to cry.
i was not lonely, only alone with myself begging myself not to leave my own body, but i was leaving.
how do you say good-bye to yourself?
oh! i’m waiting for someone to meet me, i think.
father is not a word that dead people understand.
i wanted to remember your name.
i heard your name inside the rain — somewhere between the drops — i saw falling letters.
time poured into my head. the days of the week. hours, months…
i miss you. no — that’s not enough.
it takes time to build a room out of string.
i love you. i’m going to find you.
i play the saddest music now that you’re gone.
you. it says: i love you.
i don’t think that’s a good idea. it will make you sad.
i want to know. i’d rather be sad.
you said, gravity is very compelling.
who am i? it scares me. please come back.
it means dead in a very abrupt way. not the way i died, which was slowly. but all at once, in cowboy boots.
it was hard for me to kill the poor little ducks, but you get caught up in the fervor of it.
if i ever have to die, it’s in a duck pond.
there was something i always wanted to ask you. it was — how to do something — or — a story — or someone’s name — i forget.
i should have realized that women envied me.
this is what it is to love an artist: the moon is always rising above your house.
the mind is a slide ruler. it can fit around anything. words can mean anything.
show me your body. it only means one thing. only one thing at a time.
i can do chin-ups inside your bones. close your eyes.
what do you do? what do you DO?! i hate you! damn you!
practice is a word invented by cowards. the animals don’t have a word for practice.
i’m going the way of death.
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