Things I can feel. Hard. Soft. Rough. Smooth. But the inside kind of feel, it is all the same, like foggy mush. Is that the part of me that is still asleep? (9)

Father says it will come in time. “Time heals,” he says. I don’t tell him that I don’t know what time is.

What I think is all I have left. My mind is the only thing that makes me different from a fancy toaster. What we think does matter-it's all we truly have.

When is a cell finally too small to hold our essence?

It can take years to mold a dream. It takes only a fraction of a second for it to be shattered.

It's the unknown that I fear, the bites of memories that still have no connections.

Maybe staying on the surface keeps her from returning to a place where she can't breathe.