Sometimes I sleep in the master closet, stretched out between rows of shoes, a winter coat added to my usual pile of blankets. The air does not move, and there is an odor of cedar that seems to grow stronger the longer I remain. The closet is similar to what I would want in a tomb, and is therefore a fine place to meditate on death. My closet renders death a warm, familiar, pleasantly scented thing.
-Marcus Gill, New York, NY, 2000
Writing cannot alert a reader to the purposelessness of life intending to give the reader hope. Once the world's mask has been removed, exposing the void where a face should be (or where we believe one should be), it cannot be put back on. Writing can remove that mask, and on rare occasions replace it with a new, temporary one, but that is all. Words cannot create meaning when meaning does not exist.
-Patricia Sklar, Marblehead, MA, 1952
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