But it does make me sad that we've forgotten our names. Out of everything, this seems to me the most tragic. I miss my own and I mourn for everyone else's, because I'd like to love them, but I don't know who they are.

I adapt to things quickly, including good things, which I wish I could shut off sometimes.

It's rare that I read more than two or three books by any one author, usually only one.

She is Living and I'm Dead, but I'd like to believe we're both human. Call me an idealist.

I don't want to hear music, I don't want the sunrise to be pink. The world is a liar. Its ugliness is overwhelming; the scraps of beauty make it worse.

Writing isn't letters on paper. It's communication. It's memory.

Regret is pointless. I never do anything without first deciding to do it based on facts and feelings, and if it doesn't work out how I hoped, oh well, there's another notch on my experience belt.