anything, anything is possible, if you can just see the sky.

Grief is like sinking, like being buried.

Love: a single word, a wispy thing, a word no bigger or longer than an edge. That's what it is: an edge; a razor. It draws up through the center of your life, cutting everything in two. Before and after. The rest of the world falls away on either side.

Now, after so many years, I understand what the Coldness was and where it came from—this sense that everything is lost, and worthless, and meaningless.

But...books are so much more. Some of them are webs; you can feel your way along their threads, but just barely, into strange and dark corners. Some of them are balloons bobbing up through the sky: totally self-contained, and unreachable, but beautiful to watch. And some of them―the best ones―are doors.

Fridays are the hardest in some ways: you’re so close to freedom.

Each step is more difficult than the last; the heaviness fills me and turns my limbs to stone. You must hurt or be hurt.