This is the forked tongue of grief again. It whispers in one ear: return to what you once loved best, and in the other ear it whispers, move on.

We cannot choose where to start and stop. Our stories are the tellers of us.

It was the month of May and there was warm sunshine dripping through the holes between the clouds, like the sky was a broken blue bowl and a child was trying to keep honey in it.

However long the moon disappears, someday it must shine again.

I’m telling you, trouble is like the ocean. It covers two thirds of the world.

In my world death will come chasing. In your world it will start whispering in your ear to destroy yourself. I know this because it started whispering to me when I was in the detention center.

Sometimes we don't notice that someone is being brave, because they are only doing something that seems quite easy for us.