I always had this secret suspicion that I was special.

I thought of the one thing about home that I missed, my dad's study with its built-in, floor-to-ceiling shelves sagging with thick biographies and the black leather chair that kept me just uncomfortable enough to keep from feeling sleepy as I read.

And since she drove to work every morning, I could only use the car on weekends. Well, weekends and the middle of the goddamned night.

The universe is biased toward consciousness because the universe wants to be noticed. It's a way into existential hope that doesn't have too much cliché wrapped around it.

Grateful to be a little boat, full of water, still floating.

my lungs sucked at being lungs.

Hurt tends to drown out sorry.