Not just beautiful, though — the stars are like the trees in the forest, alive and breathing. And they’re watching me. What I’ve up till now, what I’m going to do — they know it all. Nothing gets past their watchful eyes. As I sit there under the shining night sky, again a violent fear takes hold of me. My heart’s pounding a mile a minute, and I can barely breathe. All these millions of stars looking down on me, and I’ve never given them more than a passing thought before. Not just the stars — how many other things haven’t I noticed in the world, things I know nothing about?

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

It takes years to build up, it takes moments to destroy.

But I found that the longer you teach, the more you feel like a total stranger to yourself

"I believe you," she whispers after a moment. "Please find my mind."

Ever since that happened to me, I haven't been able to give myself to anyone in this world.

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