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

Pieces. Isn't that what all of life is anyway? Shards. Bits. Moments. Am I less because I have fewer, or do the few I have mean more?

Some things aren't meant to be known. Only believed.

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)

Percentages! Those are for economists, polls, and politicians. Percentages can't define your identity.

I created an icicle sculpture in the snow. White on white.

Which weakness shall I tell her? “I walk funny,” I say, and she’s satisfied with that. (inside joke)