I once sacrificed my life to keep my parents' promiise. This means nothing to you, because to you promises mean nothing... But later, she will forget her promise. She will forget she had a grandmother.

That is the way it is with a wound. The wound begins to close in on itself, to protect what is hurting so much. And once it is closed, you no longer see what is underneath, what started the pain.

Ying-ying, you have tiger eyes. They gather fire in the day. At night they shine golden.

Chaos is the penance for leisure.

Dementia was like a truth serum.

In [writing] fiction, every sentence is its own reward.

...we were like two people standing apart on separate mountain peaks, recklessly leaning forward to throw stones at one another, unaware of the dangerous chasm that separated us.