Stupid how the mind will try to distract itself.

You can build walls all the way to the sky and I will find a way to fly above them.

I'm not scared, if that's what you're wondering. The moment of death is full of sound and warmth and light shooting away, arcing up and up and up, and if singing were a feeling it would be this, this light, this lifting, like laughing... The rest you have to find out for yourself.

That's what time does: We stand stubbornly like rocks while it flows all around us, believing that we are immutable - and all the time we're being carved, and shaped, and whittled away.

Maybe all of these different possibilities exist at the same time, like each moment we live has a thousand other moments layered underneath it that look different.

This is the past: It drifts, it gathers. If you are not careful, it will bury you.

Life isn't life if you just float through it.