She prided herself on her ability to separate neatly body from mind, self that was hers from self that she gave away. She was not given when she gave, she always held back and drew satisfaction from distance. — Grace, from Lynne Tillman’s Haunted Houses.

It’s March. I started a letter to you, and then slowly clicked “save” instead of “send.” I closed my eyes and listened to the sound of the cello in the background of the song that was playing at the time. Happy almost spring. Flowers, soon, in the place of ice. I am heavy and warm with anticipation. Also, via Cassie:

Spring sprawled on a mattress in an old pair of shorts, no shirt, and one hand stuck in her waistband. from that angle she could see out of her window and up, mostly sky and the twin spires of the church next door. she felt lonely. architecture felt automatically and easily meaningful, particularly the church spires. buildings were lucky like that; big and heavy and historical. she closed her eyes and imagined falling backwards off of them. nothing meant anything. not: had no meaning, but: could have ANY meaning.

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