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. World. Is. Not. A. Safe. Place.

I've no use for talking, would just as soon store paper clips in my mouth.

Music: what life, what living itself sounds like.

People die, I think, but your relationship with them doesn't. It continues and is ever-changing.

Grief is forever. It doesn't go away; it becomes part of you, step for step, breath for breath.

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