“Order fails, and ghosts come in. Now there are hands on my body, the sheets tangling like a snare around us. He stinks of cigarettes and booze, and I am floating, falling, somewhere, between here and there, and I think:… — Andra Brynn Copy Share Image
“Borders. Tresholds. Doorways. Windows. Neither inside nor out. Not one thing any longer, but not yet another. The in between. Order fails, and ghosts come in.” — Andra Brynn Copy Share Image
