Usually my ideas are small.

Now all the mute objects of my life seem to tell my story, to stretch back in time, if I look closely enough.

It was morning by the clock but deepest nighttime in his body.

In the end we had the pieces of the puzzle, but no matter how we put them together, gaps remained, oddly shaped emptinesses mapped by what surrounded them, like countries we couldn't name.

But I care about the reader, and I'm trying to keep the reader's attention for as long as I can.

It was possible to feel superior to other people and feel like a misfit at the same time.

In the end, the tortures tearing the Lisbon girls pointed to a simple reasoned refusal to accept the world as it was handed down to them, so full of flaws.