"I like the loneliness of it, the sadness. I like everything it represents in my head, even if the memories themselves aren't happy or even real."
On/in the fictionality of letters:
"It’s weird to not be the passive one here… like I’m moving in the dark, numbly making motions to which I never get a reaction. It gives me a new sympathy for you dealing with me never telling you what I think or want. Is this payback(...)?"
"Maybe I shouldn’t be saying any of this… I’m not actually, so it’s not as serious as it could be. Is the fact that I pretend to write to you serious in itself?"
"I’m bad at this, I don’t know what to do, I’m so terribly unsure… how can nothing be so difficult?"
On love and science:
"... and is there much difference in the end between what we are and who we are?"
"The wanting is the reason as much as anything else."
"I exist in more than words, I hope."
"(...)not being at home is like missing an essential and comforting part of myself, sometimes. (...) Phantom-home syndrome... (...) I don't know about these separations, any of them. Life is full of them, but I'm not programmed with a solution, I guess. No automatic coping mechanism. I just want to be at home, to appreciate properly all of the things I'm missing. Not the big things, I never expected them to be repeated ad infinitum, but the ones I forgot to mention to myself in my personal chronology of things. I want to go back and live it again, better."
x: sorry I was so crazy and negative and undemonstrative today
y: that's alright
y: no really
Lipostiche en ***
You eat away my heart,
melt the edges of my thoughts,
pull apart the plates of my safe world.
There are growls and tremors somewhere below our feet.
The atmosphere shatters, too hot and empty to last.