Hope. It's like a drop of honey, a field of tulips blooming in the springtime. It's a fresh rain, a whispered promise, a cloudless sky, the perfect punctuation mark at the end of a sentence. And it's the only thing in the world keeping me afloat.

This pen is my only outlet, my only voice, because I have no one else to speak to, no mind but my own to drown in and all the lifeboats are taken and all the life preservers are broken and I don't know how to swim I can't swim I can't swim and it's getting so hard. It's getting so hard. It's like there are a million screams caught inside of my chest but I have to keep them all in because what's the point of screaming if you'll never be heard and no one will ever hear me in here. No one will ever hear me again.

Why sleep when there are books to read.

Books are easily destroyed. But words will live as long as people can remember them.

Hope can make people do terrible things.

I'm wondering how many more mistakes I'll have to make before things finally fall into place. If they ever will.

I am a being comprised of letters, a character created by sentences, a figment of imagination formed through fiction.