Let me just unsubscribe to my own mind already, because I don't get any of it.

All her knowledge is gone now. Everything she ever learned, or heard, or saw. Her particular way of looking at Hamlet or daisies or thinking about love, all her private intricate thoughts, her inconsequential secret musings – they’re gone too. I heard this expression once: Each time someone dies, a library burns. I’m watching it burn right to the ground.

The sky is everywhere, it begins at your feet.

I didn't know love felt like this, like turning into brightness.

Music: what life, what living itself sounds like.

Dreams change, yes, that makes sense, but I didn't know dreams could hide inside a person.

The architecture of my sister's thinking, now phantom. I fall down stairs that are nothing but air.