Let’s say, for argument’s sake, that love is a longer version of solace, a lake of snow with an immeasurable hat size, somewhere where the air doesn’t ache so much and old cell phones aren’t piled as high as the trees yet, and let’s say you and I go there and take bets from the shore birds on the hour and manner of the next death and the next, and when we’re tired of pretending to be astute, let’s say we lie down and sleep like seeds or numerous pebbles, but with the lights on, and we do, oh, we do. -Howie Good
