Our world

Remember the nights we'd just lay In the hammock and share music with each other and talk about nothing and everything? In the best conversations, you don’t even remember what you talked about, only how it felt. It was like we weren’t even there, lying together in the backyard. It felt like we were in some place your body can’t visit, some place with no ceiling and no walls and no floor and no instruments. Just in our own world. I miss our world.

You killed me

I kept thinking about how I’d been scared of monsters as a kid. When I was little, I knew monsters weren’t, like, real. But I also knew I could be hurt by things that weren’t real. I knew that made-up things mattered, and could kill you.

You're not in control

I was beginning to learn that your life is a story told about you, not one that you tell. Of course, you pretend to be the author. You have to. You think you’re the painter, but you’re the canvas.