That’s the secret to performance: conviction. The right note played tentatively still misses its mark, but play boldly and no one will question you. If one believes there is truth in art – and I do – then it’s troubling how similar the skill of performing is to lying. Maybe lying is itself a kind of art. I think about that more than I should.

My own survival required me to counterbalance interesting with invisible.

I was drawn to his aloofness, the way cats gravitate toward people who’d rather avoid them.

Your lies didn't stop me loving you; your truth hasn't stopped me either.

I cannot perch among those who think that I am broken.

I had felt the shot coming; I hadn't realized the bow was loaded with this very quarrel, perfectly calibrated to hit him hardest. What part of me had been studying him, stockpiling knowledge as ammunition?

The world is seldom so simple that it hinges on us alone.