Lots of different ways to live and lots of different ways to die. But in the end that doesn't make a bit of difference. All that remains is a desert.

It feels like everything's been decided in advance that I'm following a path somebody else has already mapped out for me. It doesn't matter how much I think things over, how much effort I put into it. In fact, the harder I try, the more I lose my sense of who I am. It's like my identity's an orbit that I've strayed far away from, and that really hurts. But more than that, it scares me. Just thinking about it makes me flinch.

There's no such thing as perfect writing, just like there's no such thing as perfect despair.

Each person feels pain in his own way, each has his own scars.

If there’s something I can’t do but want to, I won’t relax until I’m able to do it.

Somewhere in his body--perhaps in the marrow of his bones--he would continue to feel her absence.

In dreams begins responsiblities.