I've always been interested in writing from the perspective of an outsider.

The past is made out of facts...I guess the future is just hope.

Peel off these dusty wool blankets of apathy and antipathy and cynical desiccation. I want life in all its stupid sticky rawness.

I sigh inside, so exhausted by these ugly questions, but when did a monster ever deserve its privacy?

I hate that she's hurt. I hate that she's been hurt, by me and by others, throughout the entire arc of her life. I barely remember pain, but when I see it in her I feel it in myself, in disproportionate measure. it creeps into my eyes, stinging, burning.

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.

What's the point of trying to fix a world we're so briefly in?