I think history is collective memories. In writing, I'm using my own memory, and I'm using my collective memory.

It is sometimes necessary for each person. Fill up with delicious food, get drunk, sing loudly and chat frivolously.

I guess I felt attached to my weakness. My pain and suffering too. Summer light, the smell of a breeze, the sound of cicadas - if I like these things, why should I apologize?

I said nothing for a time, just ran my fingertips along the edge of the human-shaped emptiness that had been left inside me.

Don't you think it would be wonderful to get rid of everything and everybody and just go some place where you don't know a soul?

Hundreds of butterflies flitted in and out of sight like short-lived punctuation marks in a stream of consciousness without beginning or end.

It seemed to me that this world has a serious shortage of both logic and kindness.