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Danny Baxter
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In Memoriam
by
If Ellwood were a girl, he might have held his hand, kissed his temple. He might have bought a ring and tied their lives together. But Ellwood was Ellwood, and Gaunt had to be satisfied with the weight of his head on his shoulder.
“What would you like? I’d like my money’s worth. Try explaining a life bundled with episodes of this—swallowing mud, swallowing glass, the smell of blood on the first four knuckles. We pull our boots on with both hands but we can’t punch ourselves awake and all I can do is stand on the curb and say ‘sorry about the blood in your mouth. I wish it was mine.’ I couldn’t get the boy to kill me, but I wore his jacket for the longest time.”
― Crush
― Crush
“You pick your endings, and your beginnings. You get to pick the frame, you know? Maybe you don't choose what's in the picture, but you decide on the frame.”
― Turtles All the Way Down
― Turtles All the Way Down
“The blond boy in the red trunks is holding your header underwater because he is trying to kill you, and you deserve it, you do, and you know this, and you are ready to die in this swimming pool because you wanted to touch his hands and lips and this means your life is over anyway. You’re in the eighth grade. You know these things. You know how to ride a dirt bike, and you know how to do long division, and you know that a boy who likes boys is a dead boy, unless he keeps his mouth shut, which is what you didn’t do, because you are weak and hollow and it doesn’t matter anymore.”
― Crush
― Crush
“A man takes his sadness down to the river and throws it in the river but then he’s still left with the river. A man takes his sadness and throws it away but then he’s still left with his hands.”
― Crush
― Crush
“Did I want to be like him? Did I want to be him? Or did I just want to have him? Or are "being" and "having" thoroughly inaccurate verbs in the twisted skein of desire, where having someone's body to touch and being that someone we're longing to touch are one and the same, just opposite banks on a river that passes from us to them, back to us and over to them again in this perpetual circuit where the chambers of the heart, like the trapdoors of desire, and the wormholes of time, and the false-bottomed drawer we call identity share a beguiling logic according to which the shortest distance between real life and the life unlived, between who we are and what we want, is a twisted staircase designed with the impish cruelty of M.C. Escher.”
― Call Me by Your Name
― Call Me by Your Name
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