It seems to me that everything in my life has been born out of a loneliness. I was born because of two lonely people promising each other something that neither wanted. I was born in the middle of a thunderstorm, and the world is an incredibly expansive place. Every conversation I’ve had, every book that I’ve ever read. All of it was to find some place where I could finally rest. Every word I’ve written has a lingering, spreading sense of loneliness. And I am afraid that this feeling will eventually arrest all of my senses. I do not want to be struck by a perpetual sense of loss, because at the moment I feel like I have lost a part of myself. I feel like I am in one of those soapbox cars. I am made to be struck by matchsticks.