There is a chasm between me and the world outside of me. A gap so wide my feelings can't cross it. By the time my screams reach the other side, they have dwindled into groans.

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

We're fumbling in the dark, but at least we're in motion.

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.

Are we all just Dark Age doctors, swearing by our leeches? We crave a greater science. We want to be proven wrong.

What's wrong with people?" she says, almost too quiet for me to hear. "Were they born with parts missing or did it fall out somewhere along the way?

You might say that death has relaxed me.