But my hand has been clenched into a fist for three years now; it's frozen shut.

Traveling isn't something you're good at. It's something you do. Like breathing.

Sometimes the wind blows you places you weren't expecting: sometimes it blows you away from those places, too.

The little things that happen. Sometimes they're insignificant; other times, they change everything.

Who says I breathe music? Who says I even breathe?

Are you happy in your misery? Resting peaceful in desolation? It’s the final tie that binds us The sole source of my consolation" “blue

I’ve been feeling something else. Like I’m about to be sucked into something powerful and painful.