Every argument happens at once in infinity: in the kitchen, in the living room, in the bedroom. It’s deafening. Every intimate moment spreads across spacetime like warm butter; ten thousand, a hundred thousand, a million kisses all at once. The moments stack on top of each other, a great jar of pickled time: your voice, my voice, all the fucking, all the arguments, all the things we said and never said, every evening we drank away, every time we quietly wished we weren’t married, every gripe and grievance, every saving grace, it screams. The thing takes a shape in time and expands to encompass
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