I am not homesick for a place, but for people I could’ve been.

I feel like a time traveler: June, July, August.

I am in love with the idea of dying, but I have no intention of dying.

I looked at everyone and wondered where they came from, and who they missed, and what they were sorry for.

I don’t know what I want, only that I want something, and that something is not here.

I was screaming but no one could hear me. I was not really screaming, of course. I was just shouting inside my head.

I want to be lost in a city that will never know my name.

I love sleep. My life has the tendency to fall apart when I’m awake.

I want to be somewhere I have never been.

You are allowed to want differently than the world told you to want.

I learned his favorite poet. I memorized his favorite lines. I quoted them back to him. He told me he had never heard them before.

I long for the night I will never forget, with people I will never see again.

Take me somewhere I can be silent and never talk again.

My whole life I’ve felt like someone’s pet goldfish. Like, I exist, I swim around, but I have no idea what’s beyond the glass.

All human beings should try to learn before they die what they are running from, and to, and why.

I never wish to be easily defined. I’d rather float over other people’s minds as something strictly fluid and non-perceivable; more like a transparent, paradoxically iridescent creature rather than an actual person.

My heart is a thousand years old. I am not like other people.