There are many names in history, but none of them are ours.

I don’t really blame you for being dead but you can’t have your sweater back.

Kissing degenerates into biting.

The entire history of human desire takes about seventy minutes to tell. Unfortunately, we don’t have that kind of time.

History is painted by the winners.

O how he loves you, darling boy. Oh how, like always, he invents the monsters underneath the bed to get you to sleep next to him, chest to chest or chest to back, the covers drawn around you in an act of faith against the night.

What is a ghost? Something dead that seems to be alive. Something dead that doesn’t know it’s dead.

He knows that when you snap a mast it’s time to get a set of oars or learn how to breathe underwater. Rely on one thing too long and when it disappears and you have nothing–well, that’s just bad planning. It’s embarrassing, to think it could never happen. It happens.

I couldn’t get the boy to kill me, but I wore his jacket for the longest time.

In the dream I don’t tell anyone, you put your head in my lap.