The continuous narrative of existence is a lie. There is no continuous narrative, there are lit-up moments, and the rest is dark.

I wanted to cause trouble, but I know now it stays with you.

There are times when it will go so wrong that you will barely be alive, and times when you realise that being barely alive, on your own terms, is better than living a bloated half-life on someone else's terms.

There's no such thing as effortless beauty - you should know that. There's no effort which is not beautiful - lifting a heavy stone or loving you. Loving you is like lifting a heavy stone. It would be easier not to do it and I'm not quite sure why I am doing it. It takes all my strength and all my determination, and I said I wouldn't love someone again like this. Is there any sense in loving someone you can only wake up to by chance?

I choose this story above all others because it's a story I'm struggling to end.

Like all familiar objects, it had become invisible.

I keep myself locked as a box when it matters, and broken open when it doesn't matter at all.