Sometimes you remember your life in photographs that were never taken.

Nearly dying brings you closer to living. There's a thin border; you feel yourself cross it, going back to the land of the living, going home. Perhaps, if you'd gone the other way, death would have been a different home.

How blazing and alive the past is. The color of the wallpaper in the bedroom you had as a girl. It's not so much that you've lost your memory, more like you're submerged in it, like you're living in the brightly vivid underwater world of the past.

Loss isn't an absence after all. It is a presence. A strong presence right next to me. I look at it. It doesn't look like anything, that's what is so strange. It just fits in.

When the love of your life dies, the problem is not that some part of you dies too, which it does, but that some part of you is still alive.

These days I can't tell what I really feel.

Sometimes you remember your life in photographs that were never taken.