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Comfort read.

Books are letters in bottles, cast into the waves of time, from one person trying to save the world to another.

Keep reading. Keep writing. Keep fighting. We're all still here.

Sometimes you have to hold a person, though they'll mistake embrace for strangulation.

I want to meet you in every place I have loved.

Viewed from sufficient height, all problems are simple.

She lays grass over grass over grass and studies, not only the geometries of green, but the calculus of scent and heat, the thermodynamics of understory, the velocity of birdsong.

pretense does not come easily while writing to you.

I am writing in pieces--parcelling out the words I wish you to have

They would make this war, she thinks, if there were not a war already for them to make.

Thank you for your letter, more than I can say. It found me in a moment of hunger.

Words can wound--but they're bridges, too.

Letters are structures, not events. Yours give me a place to live inside.

to read your letters is to gather flowers form within myself.

Her pen had a heart inside, and the nib was a wound in a vein. She stained the page with herself. She sometimes forgets what she wrote, save that it was true, and the writing hurt.

So in this letter I am yours.

I like writing you. I like reading you. When I finish your letters, I spend frantic hours in secret composing my replies, pondering ways to send them. I can trigger any combination of chemical ups and downs with a carefully worded phrase; a factory within me will smelt any drug I seek. But there's a rush in reading and sending against which no drug compares.

We're all deviant in our different ways.

Have you ever had a hunger that whetted itself on what you fed it, sharpened so keen and bright that it might split you open, break a new thing out?

It was very cold out on the ice. Your letter warmed me.

She commits the words the fire frames to the old kind of memory.

"It's hard to see the appeal of using bones that poke from spit-coated gums to mash things that grew in dirt into a paste that will fit down the wet tube connecting your mouth to the sack of acid under your heart."

There's a kind of time travel in letters, isn't there?

What do you want from this, Red? What are you doing here?

"A fugitive becomes a queen or a scientist, or worse, a poet."

God has more respect for me than I do for myself, that God submits to the choices I make, that my ability to say no and turn my face away is essential for Love to be Love. ...He has the audacity to consent and even to submit to all our choosing. Then He joins us in the darkness we create.

I didn't want trust, I wanted answers.

Why didn't God give you answers?

God asks for trust.

Trust is not a once-in-a-lifetime decision, but a choice made within each moment as the river runs. ...we let them go, trusting that nothing will be lost, even if we lose it for a time.

This is only the beginning of our story. If we didn't have that sense, we would not be leaving.

It's one of the reasons your prayers are so powerful. It lets us mess with things.

Most of you have such a low opinion of yourselves, you don't begin to realize how powerful your choices and dominion are. Even human choices that are born of shadow-sickness must be treated with respect, because it is human beings who make them.

Everyone goes through fire, dear one, but the flame of His affection is for not against you. It purifies anything that is not Love.