No praise, no blame. Just so.

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.

You might say that death has relaxed me.

I want to change my punctuation. I long for exclamation marks, but I'm drowning in ellipses.

We have to remember everything. If we don't, by the time we grow up it'll be gone forever.

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

My "heart". Does that pitiful organ still represent anything? It lies motionless in my chest, pumping no blood, serving no purpose, and yet my feelings still seem to originate inside its cold walls. My muted sadness, my vague longing, my rare flickers of joy. They pool in the center of my chest and seep out of there, diluted and faint, but real.