It's true, I am afraid of dying. I am afraid of the world moving forward without me, of my absence going unnoticed, or worse, being some natural force propelling life on. Is it selfish? Am I such a bad person for dreaming of a world that ends when I do? I don't mean the world ending with respect to me, but every set of eyes closing with mine.

I love the idea of books being more than books, or being, rather, something other than books.

Why didn't I learn to treat everything like it was the last time. My greatest regret was how much I believed in the future.

She had fallen in love so many times that she began to suspect she was not falling in love at all, but doing something much more ordinary.

Sometimes I imagined stitching all of our little touches together. How many hundreds of thousands of fingers brushing against each other does it take to make love? Why does anyone ever make love?

Food is not rational. Food is culture, habit, and identity.

I observe, I write, I try not to remember the life that I didn't want to loose but lost and have to remember, being here fills my heart with so much joy, even if the joy isn't mine, and at the end of the day I fill the suitcase with old news.