Temporary

She noted the fallacy of permanence in a world where everything ends and desire that kind of permanence all the same.

There is nothing lonelier than lights extinguishing themselves at the end of a long day, no one left to do them the simple kindness of snuffing out.

No one is ever exactly who they claim to be, but some people are closer than others.

Here I am, here to please, to knock on your heart, tug on your sleeve, and sir, do you have a moment to discuss your life goals? The state of the economy? The state that wants secession? The recession of hair, of tides? The ceasefire and the forest fire and the brand-new flavor of fire-roasted pretzels? The exegesis of today’s front-page headlines? The story of how the world will end, slash, how the world began, slash, what kind of world is this, anyway, slash, how ‘bout that certain team that plays that certain sport? How about the environment? The economy? The bathroom? As in, can I use yours? Do you like comedy? Would you perhaps consider a list of vintage novelties you played with as a child? A listicle of popsicles you ate as a child? The story of your inner child? The story of the baby and the bathwater? The story of the baby otter and the baby giraffe and their unlikely friendship? “Can you just skip the stories and give me the pamphlet?

The human resources cabin is mostly bare. A large poster on the wall features a cat with a peg leg paw. "There is no Purr in Pirate!" reads the caption.

I want the defiance of a life spent almost in touch.

The last time you see someone is never the last time you see them. The empty space a person leave behind retains heat; a retina will preserve a face for later.

Living is also a state of mourning.

Life is a stranger in a crowd whose intentions are unclear and, come to think of it, so is death.

I worry about living the life of an unwashed vessel. The mold that fissures the leftover coffee, floating like a lily pad on forgotten dregs

It's a real good deed to let someone else comfort you, because the comfort goes both ways.

They noticed the continuous departures of kindness and sloughed their skins to wear their hearts on their sleeves as reminders. They always noticed, with relief, prodigal kindness making its inevitable return.

How long does it take to accurately replace a person, I wonder? Certainly longer than a life. An eye patch doesn't relate the eye, it just provides temporary coverage.

Getting older is the difference between solving mysteries and studying to become one.

I like to loosen the boundaries of my employment and remain longer than I’m needed. I can feel my necessity slipping away with every extra minute; it’s a rich, complicated sort of sensation, like napping, or dying.

I try to find comfort with lying every day, practicing mostly on myself.

It takes an aggressive empathy to accurately replace a person.

Not a witch, per se,” she says. “I prefer Director of Pamphlets.

I’m going to marry the International Space Station,” I said. And my mother said, “Not us. That’s not what we do.” She meant the part about getting married.

I knew I, too, would always find myself somewhere new, someone new, for the rest of my life, like my ancestors, like theirs, like theirs, like theirs.

Be careful, or you’ll end up unemployed,” my grandmother told her. My mother had never heard her say that word out loud before. “Not in front of the baby!” my mother said, putting a hand on her belly.

There’s salt in my nose and salt between my toes, and I can’t wait to send a postcard from my new, beautiful, briny life.

No,” the pirate captain says. “Working remotely is what we call being dead. Pirate lingo.

There was the learning on the job, and the lying on the job. There was late for work, and there was early. There was even right on time. The box of stamps and the corkboard calendar and the pink book of message sheets to tell you what happened exactly, specifically, in detail, While You Were Out.

There is certain work that cannot be done well and cannot be done poorly. It can only be done or undone. There is no success metric for a job that simply keeps me busy, so I ignore her empty praise.

The universe doesn't subtract, it just replaces. Matter isn't created or destroyed, it's just replaced, it just changes, it's just misplaced. And if nothing is ever really lost, how can we ever mourn?

We read magazines and the glass of wine in my hand refills itself thanks to the magical properties of women gathered in a room.

At first I considered this a kindness, a way of manufacturing work when there was none. I now understand it to be a sort of game, the kind of constant undoing that leaves no actual accomplishment, that makes a person question her very existence.