Who has not asked himself at some time or other: am I a monster or is this what it means to be a person?

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

And now -- now it only remains for me to light a cigarette and go home. Dear God, only now am I remembering that people die. Does that include me? Don't forget, in the meantime, that this is the season for strawberries. Yes.

And I want to be held down. I don't know what to do with the horrifying freedom that can destroy me.

For one has the right to shout. So, I am shouting.

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

Whether she won or lost, she would continue to wrestle with life. It would not be with her own life alone but with all of life. Something had finally been released within her. And there it was, the sea.