So let’s raise our glass to the accident season,To the river beneath us where we sink our souls,To the bruises and secrets, to the ghosts in the ceiling,One more drink for the watery road.
In the ghost house in the last days of the accident season, we were never going to die.
Every first is a loss.
We bite back the things we can't say and we cushion every surface for the inevitable moment when they all come fighting out.
I think the we all drown, in one way or another.
I think that we all drown, in one way or another.
There's this magical place,' he says with mock solemnity, 'called a library--I don't know if you've heard of it, but they have books, and also newspaper, and back issues of newspapers...
I am afraid of everybody else's secrets
Accidents happen. Our bones shatter, our skin splits, our hearts break. We burn, we drown, we stay alive.
