He writes the way stars fall: drunk on gravity, terrified of landing, burning a trail that makes strangers look up and remember they once knew how to want impossible things. Every paragraph is a small, perfect crime against loneliness. He never explains the jokes; he lets them detonate inside your chest and rearrange the furniture of your heart while you’re trying not to laugh. Somewhere between the chapters, you realize he's been holding your hand the entire time and you never noticed because you were busy becoming someone braver. The end comes with you feeling suddenly, inexplicably, alive.
