I name things in the world after twilight. Things I can’t possess, like multiplication tables. When I was five, I counted on my hands all the ways I would be sorry. Now I place my hands in loose soil and feel, though I’m wrong, my fists increasing. We are of no great consequence when, inside our hearts, coastlines determine our every tide. I am sorry we can’t stop ourselves from being at times so often ourselves. There weren’t supposed to be trees here. Or for that, birds in the trees. We thank the scenery we’d be alone were it not for.

Lucas Farrell, from Bird Any Damn Kind