There's no need to hide a thing under floorboards when our skin is lined with all of these veins like tiny little mailboxes and pigeonholes and knots in trees. Maybe that's the benefit of the mystery there, all of the things we'll never see. Sometimes I'm not entirely sure that that isn't the secret, that all of my veins aren't inscribed with love letters and the first half of jokes and five million puns. It makes as much sense as anything else.
I worry a lot about the things we leave behind, all of the rainbows and smashed plates, bouquets and empty bottles and boxes full of crumbs. I've seen a lot of things broken lately, and nothing to do by to try and help with the first half of jokes and five million puns. But I think about the ways to grow flowers to cover our footsteps, all of the things left unwritten and stacked in our veins. Building seems scary in a world full of chasms, but the open sky isn't always a friend either, and the only plan possible is to leave behind less that is broken and more that is fixed.