As if when someone close to us dies, we momentarily trade places with them, in the moment right before. And as we get over it, we’re really living their life in reverse, from death to life, from sickness to health.

he is both the source of my happiness and the one i want to share it with.

These words are now mine, but soon they’ll be ours.

i wish i were someone else, even though i know i'll never, ever be able to get away from what i've done and what's been done to me.

So what do you have to confess now?" I don't know why I'm saying any of this, except that is the truth. "I'm confessing that I don't know if I'm ready for this." "What is 'this'?" "Being open. Being hurt. Liking. Not being liked. Seeing the flicker on. Seeing the flicker off. Leaping. Falling. Crashing.

Knowledge is the only thing I take with me when I go.

This is my life, I think. I am an accumulation of objects.