We're fumbling in the dark, but at least we're in motion.
Even in my bravest moment, I am a coward.
Writing isn't letters on paper. It's communication. It's memory.
She is Living and I'm Dead, but I'd like to believe we're both human. Call me an idealist.
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.
Can we really choose anything?' 'Maybe. If we want to bad enough.