Six seconds in, six seconds out- no choice anymore. Don't mess this up. If I mess up, even by a second, I have to start the breath cycle all over again. That's the rule. The unbreakable rule.
Kate EllisonLo- don't move," he says, seriously, his eyes like honey in the basement light- warm and amber and shining. "i'm still working."
"I had an itch."
"Let me know next time, and I'll scratch it for you. Before the terrible itching incident ruined everything, I was about to start on the dark shadow of your elbow crease. Now I'll have to re-create that perfect, dark, little cityscape from memory.
And then- moving his long, clean fingers around my waist and pulling me closer to his pine, his clove, his grass, his snow, his light- he kisses me.
Kate EllisonWe are born alone, and all die alone, too. I read that somewhere, in some book. After Oren died I used to lie awake and think about that: think about the universe sucking up hope for us, soul by soul, until we're so dry we all starve, all at once, and the sky takes our bones and crushes them into mulch and starts over again. So goes the cycle. So go the millions and billions of things we can't ever begin to control.
Kate EllisonPam, my new therapist, who’s like some blissed-out, grown-up, yoga-hippie version of Rain, says that the physical body, the idea of the self, is kind of a scar: a brief puckering of time, a fleeting sewing together of energy and heart, which go beyond the physical form, on and on and on, forever.
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