They learned to hate her unknowability, her untouchability, the collage of her.

If I’d been someone else in a different world I’d've done something different, but I was myself and the world was the world, so I was silent.

I missed you even when I was with you. That’s been my problem. I miss what I already have, and I surround myself with things that are missing.

I am not sad, he would repeat to himself over and over, I am not sad. As if he might one day convince himself. Or fool himself. Or convince others -- The only thing worse than being sad is for others to know that you are sad.

Murdering someone would surely prove that you are capable of killing, but it wouldn't be the most reasonable way to understand why you shouldn't do it.

There's nothing wrong with not understanding yourself.

Sadness of love without release.