We write in response to what we read and learn; and in the end we write out of our
deepest selves.
I have no appetite,' she sighed. 'Not for food, not for work. Not for anything.' I looked at her and wondered what I am except appetite.
The life she'd led, each of the places she'd called home sending unexpected shoots toward the next, had made her open to almost anything.
In that light, across the field, is all I will never have. Next to me is all I will.
It was through Peter that she first understood that the world existed before her, without her. For a few days she could not forgive him for this.
We all feel unhoused in some sense. That’s part of why we write.