“I am writing about you again today and I wonder, why dig up our sad corpse? Why put the spleen back, a spoiled balloon, already burst, but here I am huffing life back into it. Nursing our fruitless love. Sometimes, I still can’t believe it. That you happened and I happened and this was the best we could do. Our nest of rubbish, our flowerless garden - we slept here. Made love among the bottle caps and ants and mold.”— Sierra Demulder, Uninhabitable