I sleep. I dream. I make up things that I would never say. I say them very quietly.

Tell me we're dead and I'll love you even more.

I am singing now while Rome burns.

You see, I take the parts that I remember and stitch them back together to make a creature that will do what I say or love me back.

The narrator blames the birds. And you want to blame the birds as well. I blamed the birds for a long time. But in this story everyone is hungry, even the birds. And at this point in the story so many things have gone wrong, so many bad decisions made, that it’s a wonder anyone would want to continue reading.

Someone is digging your grave right now.

He could build a city. Has a certain capacity. There’s a niche in his chest where a heart would fit perfectly and he thinks if he could just maneuver one into place – well then, game over.