We live in a world made up more of story than stuff. We are creatures of memory more than reminders, of love more than likes.

But what she was really trying to say was this: I like music better than anything in the world, after you.

I imagine a line, a white line, painted on the sand and on the ocean, from me to you.

Sometimes one simply wants to disappear.

There are only so many times that you can utter ‘It does not hurt’ before it begins to hurt even more than the hurt. You become enlightened of the feeling of feeling hurt, which is worse, I am certain, than the existent hurt.

What if I never stop inventing?

Years were passing through the spaces between moments.