Everybody knows the competing identities of people who have kids.

The secret was a hole in the middle of me that every happy thing fell into.

No matter how much I feel, I’m not going to let it out. If I have to cry, I’m gonna cry on the inside. If I have to bleed, I’ll bruise. If my heart starts going crazy, I’m not gonna tell everyone in the world about it. It doesn’t help anything. It just makes everyone’s life worse.

Memory was supposed to fill the time, but it made time a hole to be filled.

The only thing more painful than being an active forgetter is to be an inert rememberer.

Grandfather informs me that is not possible.

Everything else happened - why not the things that could have?