The weather forecast speaks only of endless rain.
Our bodies are like trees that constantly reach to the sky,
yet always long to hang themselves from their own branches.
I once encountered a homeless man on the streets of Chicago,
who told me that his mother still writes letters to his father. She’s
83 and nearly deaf, but can write the most poetic lines, among them:
The distance between your skin and mine
was the greatest journey I ever took.