I’ve never once thought about how I was going to die,” she said. “I can’t think about it. I don’t even know how I’m going to live.

If I'm going to merely ramble, maybe I should just snuggle under the warm covers, think of Miu, and play with myself.

Sometimes I feel so- I don’t know - lonely. The kind of helpless feeling when everything you’re used to has been ripped away. Like there’s no more gravity, and I’m left to drift in outer space with no idea where I’m going’ Like a little lost Sputnik?’ I guess so.

Only the dead stay seventeen forever.

[...] Shimamoto had her own little world within her. A world that was for her alone, one I could not enter.

For me, writing a novel is like having a dream. Writing a novel lets me intentionally dream while I'm still awake. I can continue yesterday's dream today, something you can't normally do in everyday life.

If you want everything to be nice and straight all the time, then go live in a world made with a triungular ruler.