I'm suddenly finding it hard to know the difference between nightmares and consciousness.

There are so many of us, so many girls. The world wants us for our wombs or our bodies, or it doesn't want us at all.

I liked just being with you. I liked the way you breathed when you were asleep. I liked when you took the champagne glass from my hand. I liked how your fingers were always too long for your gloves.

Words like 'unputdownable' and 'irresistible' are simply not enough for Cat Winters's In the Shadow of Blackbirds. Days after finishing this story, it remains the first thought I have in the morning, and the thing that haunts me until I sleep.

Bet you never eat, he says. Bet you drink up the oxygen like it's butter. Bet you can go for days on nothing but thoughts.

A strange thing, words. Once they're said, it's hard to imagine they're untrue.

I think he's beginning to understand, and understanding is a horrible thing.