This story is about love. It is not a love story; that is something completely different. This story is about love; it is about death and grief and joy and peace. It is about a person, and so it is about the human condition. There will be times when you hear your thoughts in the character’s voice. That is fine. There will be times when you don’t understand them at all. That is fine too. Do not try to dissect this story, pin it like a butterfly to a board, crack it’s bones and peel away it’s flesh to see what lies beneath. There is a certain macabre beauty to such things, and a great deal of learning to be had from it, but not with this story. Leave this story the butterfly that danced among the flowers while you watched from your window in the middle of summer.
from a book i’ll never write
