I would like my life to be a movie so I could cut to a montage.

Every experience, good or bad, is a priceless collector's item.

In my mind I am eloquent; I can climb intricate scaffolds of words to reach the highest cathedral ceilings and paint my thoughts. But when I open my mouth, everything collapses.

How do I appear unthreatening when her lover's blood is running down my chin?

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

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

And yet ... But what if ... I want to do something impossible. Something astounding and unheard of. I want to scrub the moss off the Space Shuttle and fly Julie to the moon and colonise it, or float a capsized cruise ship to some distant island where no one will protest us, or just harness the magic that brings me into the brains of the Living and use it to bring Julie into mine, because it's warm in here, it's quiet and lovely, and in here we aren't an absurd juxtaposition, we are perfect.