Tell me who I am. (29)

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)

I still cry on waking. I'm not sure why. I feel nothing. Nothing I can name, anyway. It's like breathing - something that happens over which I have no control. (6)

Are the details of our lives who we are, or is it owning those details that makes the difference?

I suppose you're right about some perspectives. Just a few weeks ago, I thought you were a dickhead.

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

I wonder at the weight of a Sparrow.