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My truest life is unrecognizable, extremely interior and there is not a single word that defines it.
Because “who am I?” creates a need. And how can you satisfy that need? Those who wonder are incomplete.
In her little superstitious imaginings, she thought that if by any chance she ever got a nice good taste of living — she’d suddenly cease to be the princess she was and be transformed into vermin. Because, no matter how bad her situation, she didn’t want to be deprived of herself, she wanted to be herself.
even sadness was also something for rich people, for people who could afford it, for people who didn’t have anything better to do. Sadness was a luxury.
When she was little, since she didn’t have anyone to kiss, she’d kissed the wall.
she wanted to vomit something that wasn’t her body, to vomit something luminous. A thousand-pointed star.
