My friends and the people who are close to me know what I am. And that is enough.

Trust me, I'm telling you stories. ... I can change the story. I am the story.

People do go back, but they don't survive, because two realities are claiming them at the same time. Such things are too much. You can salt your heart, or kill your heart, or you can choose between the two realities. There is much pain here. Some people think you can have your cake and eat it. The cake goes mouldy and they choke on what's left. Going back after a long time will make you mad, because the people you left behind do not like to think of you changed, will treat you as they always did, accuse you of being indifferent, when you are only different.

I seem to have run in a great circle, and met myself again on the starting line.

Language always betrays us, tells the truth when we want to lie, and dissolves into formlessness when we would most like to be precise.

In the heat of her hands I thought, This is the campfire that mocks the sun.

I didn't know what hate felt like, not the hate that comes after love. It's huge and desperate and it longs to be proved wrong. And every day it's proved right it grows a little more monstrous. If the love was passion, the hate will be obsession. A need to see the once-loved weak and cowed beneath pity. Disgust is close and dignity is far away. The hate is not only for the once loved, it's for yourself too; how could you ever have loved this?