She released her grievances like handfuls of birdseed: They are there, and they are gone.
It's impossible to compete with the dead. I wished I could stop trying.
What an indulgence it would be, to just blow off my head, all my mean spirits disappearing with a gun blast, like blowing a seedy dandelion apart.
I don't understand the point of being together if you're not the happiest.
To spend a life in dreams, that sounded too lovely.
I was not a lovable child, and I'd grown into a deeply unlovable adult. Draw a picture of my soul, and it'd be a scribble with fangs.