I flipped back through the pad of paper while I thought about what Stephen Hawking would do next.

She was not crying Which surprised me very much But I understand now That she had found places For her melancholy That were behind more masks Than only her eyes

I dreamt four nights ago of clock hands descending from the universe like rain, of the moon as a green eye, of mirrors and insects, of a love that never withdrew. It was not the feeling of completeness that I so needed, but the feeling of not being empty.

There's nothing wrong with not understanding yourself.

We shared the smile of recognizing ourselves in each other, how many imposters do I have? Do we all make the same mistakes, or has one of us gotten it right, or even just a bit less wrong, am I the imposter?

I started carrying blank books like this one around, which I would fill with all the things I couldn't say.

Which, then, brings us closer to what we want to communicate: saying what we intend, or trying to say the opposite?