It could be enough, maybe, or at least a start, but the problem is that at night I tumble into dreams that aren't dreams at all. I tumble into memories and wake up aching for a dying world and a quiet, cold life that offered me nothing but sitting in a still room.

I felt nothing all the time, and it had started to feel normal. It should have scared me, but it didn't.

I want to lie down on the bench then, or better yet, on the grass, rest on something living and see if I can hear the dead underneath.

He looks trapped, helpless and furious, and that’s a feeling I know too well. Know how much it hurts. Know how it holds you down, how every day there are a thousand little ways to see there is nothing you can do to change who or what you are.

I didn’t want to see it. I didn’t think he’d ever really notice me, and in the end, he didn’t.

I think...I think sometimes that's how it is. Sometimes people have to go before you get stuff. Before you can really get it.

I thought living dead girls couldn't feel pain, thought I was emptied out but I'm not, I'm not.