and write every happiness down, because love and light are all i wanted to give to you—none of these jarring nights, these metal impulses, these insect bones. but happiness is not the easy spoil, not won by waking, not received in rising. and the screeching wreck is fast (i will throw it from me.)

but i see a new face and immediately i am constructing. if i didn't, it might pass less ruinous.