Highs and lows make you feel that things matter, but they’re nothing.

I thought about all of the things that anyone ever says to each other, and how everyone is going to die, whether it’s in a millisecond, or days, or months, or 76.5 years, if you were just born. Everything that’s born has to die, which means our lives are like skyscrapers. The smoke rises at different speeds, but they’re all on fire, and we’re all trapped.

Fo Black lived on Canal Street, which used to be a real canal. He didn’t speak very good English because he hadn’t left Chinatown since he came from Taiwan, because there was no reason to. The whole time I talked to him I imagined water on the other side of the window, like we were in an aquarium. He offered me a cup of tea, but I didn’t feel like it, but I drank it anyway, to be polite. I asked him did he really love New York or was he just wearing the shirt. He smiled, like he was nervous. I could tell he didn’t understand, which made me feel guilty for speaking English, for some reason. I pointed at his shirt. “Do? You? Really? Love? New York?” He said, “New York?” I said, “Your. Shirt.” He looked at his shirt. I pointed at the N and said “New,” and then the Y and said “York.” He looked confused, or surprised, or embarrassed, or maybe even mad. I couldn’t tell what he was feeling, because I couldn’t speak the language of his feelings. “I not know was New York. In Chinese, ny mean ‘you.’ Thought was ‘I love you.’” It was then that I noticed the “I heart NY” poster on the wall, and the “I heart NY” flag over the door, and the “I heart NY” dishtowels, and the “I heart NY” lunchbox on the kitchen table. I asked him, “Well then why do you love everybody so much?

I tried to think about other things. I tried to invent optimistic inventions. But the pessimistic ones were extremely loud.

But I knew the truth, and that’s why I was so sad.
Every moment before this one depends on this one.
Everything in the history of the world can be proven wrong in one moment.

Anna gave me the typewriter your mother used to write her life story on. She gave it to me only a few weeks before the bombings. I thanked her, she said, “Why are you thanking me? It’s a gift for me.” “A gift for you?” “You never write to me.” “But I’m with you.” “So?” “You write to someone you can’t be with.” “You never sculpt me, but at least you could write to me.” It’s the tragedy of loving, you can’t love anything more than something you miss. I told her, “You never write to me.” She said, “You’ve never given me a typewriter.

I like to see people reunited, I like to see people run to each other, I like the kissing and the crying, I like the impatience, the stories that the mouth can’t tell fast enough, the ears that aren’t big enough, the eyes that can’t take in all of the change, I like the hugging, the bringing together, the end of missing someone.