People observe the colors of a day only at its beginnings and ends, but to me it's quite clear that a day merges through a multitude of shades and intonations with each passing moment. A single hour can consist of thousands of different colors. Waxy yellows, cloud-spot blues. Murky darkness. In my line of work, I make it a point to notice them.

It's funny, don't you think, how time seems to do a lot of things? It flies, it tells, and worst of all, it runs out.

She didn't dare to look up, but she could feel their frightened eyes hanging onto her as she hauled the words in and breathed them out. A voice played the notes inside her. This, it said, is your accordion.

He killed himself for wanting to live.

He prefers not to ruin things with any more questions. What it is is what it is.

If I ever leave this place- I'll make sure I'm better HERE first.

Like most misery, it started with apparent happiness.