I'm concerned about the unknowability of other people.
Happiness is the lucky pane of glass you carry in your head. It takes all your cunning just to hang on to it, and once it's smashed you have to move into a different sort of life.
Here's to another year and let's hope it's above ground.
It's hard work being a person, you have to do it every single day.
The silence is perfect, and yet a torment.
The scolding voice is her own, so abrasive and quick, yet so powerless to move her.