I felt, that night, on that stage, under that skull, incredibly close to everything in the universe, but also extremely alone.

Sadness of not knowing enough words to [express what you mean].

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

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?

Love...is the immovability of truth.

In my family, Father is the world champion at ending conversations.