Bokelskere.no

There is a loneliness that can be rocked. Arms crossed, knees drawn up, holding, holding on, this motion, unlike a ship's, smooths and contains the rocker. It's an inside kind--wrapped tight like skin. Then there is the loneliness that roams. No rocking can hold it down. It is alive. On its own. A dry and spreading thing that makes the sound of one's own feet going seem to come from a far-off place.

In this here place, we flesh; flesh that weeps, laughs; flesh that dances on bare feet in grass. Love it. Love it hard. Yonder they do not love your flesh. They despise it. They don't love your eyes, they'd just as soon pick em out. No more do they love the skin on your back. Yonder they flay it. And O my people they do not love your hands. Those they only use, tie, bind, chop off and leave empty. Love your hands. Raise them up and kiss them. Touch others with them, pat them together, stroke them on your face 'cause they don't love that either. You got to love it, you! And no, they ain't in love with your mouth. Yonder, out there, they will see it broken and break it again.

His waiting eyes and awful human power.

When I put that headstone up I wanted to lay in there with you, put your head on my shoulders and keep you warm, and I would have if Bulgar and Howard and Denver didn't need me, because my mind was homeless then.

I am not separate from her [...] her face is my own

I am alone I want to be the two of us

124 was quiet. Denver, who thought she knew all about silence, was surprised to learn that hunger could do that: quiet you down and wear you out.

White cotton sheets had never crossed his mind.