Back in her childhood she used to have holy feelings, knifelike flashes that laid the earth open like a blue watermelon, when the sun came down to her like an elevator she was sure she could step inside and be lifted up, up, past all bad luck, past every skipped thirteenth floor in every building human beings had ever built. She would have these holy days and walk home from school and think, After this I will be able to be nice to my mother, but she never ever was, After this I will be able to talk about only what matters, life and death and what comes after, but still she went on about the weather.

From Patricia Lockwood’s No One Is Talking About This 📚