But if you let your soul go? Let it wander? Would it eventually come home to you? Was it like love in that sense? A thing you had to set free to experience? Even to encounter?
“The hull of the knife and the surf of our hurting
The outrigger of the bullet and the whitecaps of our mistakes
The Commander of Suicide and the archipelago of the mirror”
Denis Johnson | “Ulysses”
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