The space that I can call mine.. is so small that my ideas have become small. I am like a caterpillar in a cocoon of paper; all around me are sketches for sculptures, small drawings that seem like moths fluttering against the windows, beating their wings to escape from this tiny space.. Every day the ideas come more reluctantly, as though they know I will starve them and stunt their growth.

...all of our laments could not add a single second to her life, not one additional beat of the heart, nor a breath.

Love the world and yourself in it, move through it as though it offers no resistance, as though the world is your natural element.

Oh. A bigger studio. It dawns on me, stupid me, that Henry could win the lottery at any time at all; that he has never bothered to do so because it's not normal; that he has decided to set aside his fanatical dedication to living like a normal person so I can have a studio big enough to roller-skate across; that I am being an ingrate. "Clare? Earth to Clare..." "Thank you," I say, too abruptly.

that's what I love you for: your inability to perceive all my hideous flaws

Clare seems so pleased with the idea of me as a pirate that she forgets that I am Stranger Danger.

Now I wonder if it means that the future is a place, or like a place, that I could go to; that is go to in some way other than just getting older.