Grim

by D.J. Krimmer

Grief is not sorrow. Sorrow is a guest who will leave. Grief is a parasite—it latches on, it feeds, it remakes. It is a rot that eats away at you and leaves only a husk. It is the weight pressing down on my chest with every breath, my dark shadow beside me, whispering I will never be whole again.

It’s beautiful in that noble way that old things are beautiful—in their resiliency, the effortless way in which they still stand. Still try.

Casual authority is the most dangerous kind.

“What I am capable of does not define who I am.” The silence lingers. “And I will never hurt you.”

“Even in the face of having learned what comes after life, I still contend there is nothing quite so magical as a book. Nothing as powerful as a story.”

as any good book lover will tell you, there really are two hobbies—reading books and collecting books.

“There’s my anchor in the infinite. Good to see you handsome. You’re late.”