““That life and this. This life. That life. The one beneath is drawn in solid lines and bold strokes; it is a picture drawn in permanence with ink. It’s a tattoo. Indelible. The one on top of it is sketched on vellum in soft brushes of charcoal, easily smudged. It covers the one beneath, but can’t hide it. That life. This life. It looks as if you can have both. I mean, they’re both right there, one on top of the other, and it looks as if they’ll blend. But they never will. So, you take this thing. You take this thing you want, and you put it in a box and you close the lid. You can let your fingers trace the cracks, the places where the light gets in, the dark gets out, but the lid stays on. You don’t look inside. You don’t look at this thing you want so much, because you can. Not. Have. It. So there’s this box, you know, with the thing inside, and you could throw it away or bury it or shoot it into space; you could set it on fire and watch it burn to ashes, but really, none of that would make a difference, because you cannot destroy what you want. It only makes you want it more. So. You take this thing you want and you put it in a box and you close the lid. And you hold the box close to your heart, which is where it wants to go, and you pretend it doesn’t kill you every time you feel yourself breathe.””
