I am dying: it's a beautiful word. Like the long slow sigh of the cello: dying. But the sound of it is the only beautiful thing about it.

No bird in a cage ever speaks. What is there to say? The sky is everywhere, churning above its head, blue and endless, calling out to it. But the caged bird can't answer anything except 'I cannot'.

Affection makes fools. Always, without exception, love digs a channel that's sooner or later flooded by the briny water of despair.

Let me fly, let me see things that are hidden from other eyes.

I thought about how stupid it is, that all of us are born destined to desire somebody else, though desire brings with it such disappointment and pain. Humankind's history must be scored bloody with heartbreak. This hankering for affection is a blight upon us.

I would always be lonely, but no more alone.

Every atom in me feels composed of lead. This is what dying is: a pull to the ground.