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Not to brag, but he was right about that too.
Fuck.
He has lived, dear Lord, how he has lived.
“I understand,” she whispers. “I’m sorry that you do,” he whispers back.
FUCK
In his mind, there were always four of them.
Four cries. Joar’s, then the artist’s, then Ted’s. But first of all: hers.
The children of addicts always know what the time is.
So she leaned forward and whispered: “I… believe in you.”
You can’t love someone out of addiction, all the oceans are the tears of those who have tried. We’re not allowed to die for our children, the universe won’t let us, because then there wouldn’t be any mothers left.
