It was time, I knew, to drive to my sister’s bustling, cheerful house, all tidied and stiff for the day. I would talk to people whose existence I had forgotten years before and they would ask me about my marriage (failed a decade ago, a relationship that had slowly frayed until eventually, as they always seem to, it broke) and whether I was seeing anyone (I wasn’t; I was not even sure that I could, not yet) and they would ask about my children (all grown up, they have their own lives, they wish they could be here today), work (doing fine, thank you, I would say, never knowing how to talk about what I do. If I could talk about it, I would not have to do it. I make art, sometimes I make true art, and sometimes it fills the empty places in my life. Some of them. Not all) We would talk about the departed; we would remember the dead.
—Neil Gaiman/The Ocean At The End Of The Lane
Totally What’s Happening
Big Tag Words1Q84 100 days project bed books card cards chatting with The Boy colorado correspondence depression face fear food friends handwriting project Haruki Murakami Kevyn kitten letter letters Lily links love mail truck Me vs. The Queue movies personal correspondence poetry postcard postcards postcrossing random Reading school self-portrait sendsomething sex stamps stationery The Boy video Vivian Wedgehead work writing
The Stuff From Before
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