I ran rather than walked, anxious to lose my way. All I wanted was to be unsure.

I wanted to cry but I didn't, I probably should have cried, I should have drowned us there in the room ending our suffering.

She was like a drowning person, flailing, reaching for anything that might save her. Her life was an urgent, desperate struggle to justify her life.

A few weeks after the worst day, I started writing lots of letters. I don't know why, but it was one of the only things that made my boots lighter.

In the morning, when the nothing vase casts a something shadow, like the memory of someone you've lost, what can you say about that?

If we communicated with something like music, we would never be misunderstood, because there is nothing in music to understand.

But I still couldn't figure out what it all meant. The more I found out, the less I understood.