i was just laying on my bed, reading a magazine called New Letters, that i got as part of the t-r-o-u-b-l-e, and flipping through the old standby, Tin House.

and it occurred to me that what i really want is to cover myself in books and magazines and words. i have dreams where pages are falling all over and all around me. i want the words to fall on me like a storm, to find a home in my skin; to turn like lovers across my lips, my closed eyelids, slide like the slowest honey over my knees and collarbones.

words turn themselves over and over in my mind, just because of their shape and the way they feel.

when i die, i want to be cremated with my favorite books and all the letters i have ever received and ever sent; i want to be burned again and again so that my ashes are indistinguishable from those of the words. and then i want to be thrown into the pacific ocean, the ocean of my childhood. everything that is beautiful you can find while contemplating that ocean.