“What’s the point of being a writer,” he asks, “if you can’t tell the best story you know?”

dreaming our descendants are regulars on the moon run

“What’s the point of being a human being,” I ask, “if you’ll hurt a friend in order to tell a good story?”

first violets—this time there’s a cat in the box

A great deal more is drunk and a great many more things are said.

the afterbirth incomplete, putting the garden to bed

The only thing that saves us, in the end, is that he agrees that it’s my story. He’s very clear in his mind that stealing other people’s stories is wrong.

whose words these are fill up with snow

Still, the giant and I consult the moon and begin to plan for returning her to her own story.

apology—50 million gallons of water drain out to sea


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