In a story, you can turn to the front and begin again and everyone lives once more. That doesn't work in real life. And I love my real people the most.

Every minute you spend with someone gives them a part of your life and takes part of theirs.

Remembering is part of thinking, but not all of it.

There is ebb and flow. Leaving and coming. Flight and fall. Sing and silent. Reaching and reached.

I'm just a butterfly, a mourning cloak, sealed inside a cocoon with blnd eyes and stiky wings. And suddenly I wonder if the cocoons sometimes do not open, if the butterfly inside is ever simply not strong enough to break through.

It's not knowing how to write that makes you interesting, it's what you write.

Forgetting lets you live without the pain for a moment but remembering hits hard.