Are my words ever actually audible, or do they just echo in my head while people stare at me, waiting?

I would like my life to be a movie so I could cut to a montage.

I don't know... there's something kind of beautiful about it, don't you think? That we keep living and growing even though our world is a corpse? That we keep coming back no matter how many of us die?

I wonder how well she sleeps at night, and what kind of dreams she has. I wish I could step into them like she steps into mine.

One mistake, one brief lapse of my new found judgement-that's all it took to unravel everything. What a massive responsibility, being a moral creature.

Are my words ever actually audible, or do they just echo in my head while people stare at me, waiting?

... we shoved out many hopes and fears into their hands, believing those hands were strong because they had firm handshakes. They failed us, always. There was no way they could not fail us - they were human, and so were we.