But don't forget, in the meantime, that this is the season for strawberries. Yes.

I hear the mad song of a little bird and crush butterflies between my fingers.

In the world there exists no aesthetic plane, not even the aesthetic plane of goodness.

Putting my hand in someone else’s has always been my definition of happiness. Before I fall asleep, often - in that small struggle not to lose consciousness and go into the greater world - often, before I get up the courage to go into the vastness of sleep, I pretend that someone has my hand in theirs, and then I go, go to that enormous absence of form that is sleep. And when even after that I don’t have courage, I dream.

I write to save someone's life, probably my own

But don't forget, in the meantime, that this is the season for strawberries. Yes.

I ask myself: is every story that has ever been written in this world, a story of suffering and affliction?