têtedump

Every simple love in my life is behind this one wooden door.

Art is what we leave of ourselves in other people.

He wants to be one of the people in the houses, reading about adventures in a book, like a normal person. He wants to hear the artist's sleeping breath at the other end of the room. He wants to be home.

...for the first time in his life he wants time to go faster, only someone who still has all their people left wants to stop time.

We never get that age back again, when every friend is a childhood friend, we measure all infatuations throughout our lives against that.

The artist would remember being fourteen as feeling like he was always homesick, because he realized as an adult that that was what the emptiness in his chest was: some of us are born in the wrong place, the whole of our childhood is like being shipwrecked on a desert island, we ache with homesickness without knowing what home is yet.