HONEY SOAKED PARADISE

you have a touch of homesickness — half for my body, half for the grave

“I am the shape you made me. Filth teaches filth.”

[T]error is naturally and abundantly part of life, part of even the most becalmed, intelligent, sunny life […] The world where the owl is endlessly hungry and endlessly on the hunt is the world in which I live too. There is only one world.

You don’t think about it every day or it would rise up and consume you. It just remained there, nameless, a sad, dark thing that weighed you down only some of the time. When the memory became too faint, too abstract, it would transform itself into an old rotator cuff injury, a pain so thin yet so sharp that he could trace the line of it all the way across his shoulder blade and down his back.