The months fall to shards at my feet.

Every star has been set in the sky. We mistakenly think they were put there for us.

When I am writing anything in general, I just want to tell the story that exists in my head; I don't try to write a parable or make a point.

But there’s no such thing as free. There are only different and more horrible ways to be enslaved.

There's a hazy smile on her lips that won't go away, and her hair is a mess. It's like a brushfire filled with casualties.

Childhood is a long, long road, from which that dark whispering forest of death seems an impossible destination.

She would do anything, anything to belong to his son after a lifetime of belonging to no one at all.