It's as if someone vacuumed up the horizon while we were looking the other way.

This is our story to tell. You’d think for all the reading I do, I would have thought about this before, but I haven’t. I’ve never once thought about the interpretative, the story telling aspect of life, of my life. I always felt like I was in a story, yes, but not like I was the author of it, or like I had any say in its telling whatsoever.

I suddenly feel left out of a future that isn't even going to happen.

But what if music is what escapes when a heart breaks?

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.

Music: what life, what living itself sounds like.

Our tongues have fallen madly in love and gotten married and moved to Paris.