She was a genius of sadness, immersing herself in it, separating its numerous strands, appreciating its subtle nuances. She was a prism through which sadness could be divided into its infinite spectrum.

She felt as if she were brimming, always producing and hoarding more love inside her. But there was no release.

It was getting hard to keep all the things I didn't know inside me.

I wanted to hit him. I wanted to hold him. I wanted to shout myself into his ear.

Tomorrow was over the horizon, and would take an entire day to reach.

If we communicated with something like music, we would never be misunderstood, because there is nothing in music to understand.

Ironically, the utterly unselective omnivore -- "I'm easy; I'll eat anything" -- can appear more socially sensitive than the individual who tries to eat in a way that is good for society.