Life is lived on the inside. What's outside doesn't matter.

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

I suppose that's what happens when you make other people's lives miserable: life gets miserable back at you.

How does one craft happiness out of something as important, as complicated, as unrepeatable and as easily damaged as life?

Strange how love coexists with hate, how they render eachother mute, how the swilling of them together makes a new and softer, sympathetic thing.

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'.

Words on the page are never prisoners of the page