We don’t see things as they are, we see them as we are.
I’m restless. Things are calling me away. My hair is being pulled by the stars again.
— Anaïs Nin
For lonely people, rain is a chance to be touched.
— Simon Van Booy
Whenever someone who knows you disappears, you lose one version of yourself. Yourself as you were seen, as you were judged to be. Lover or enemy, mother or friend, those who know us construct us, and their several knowings slant the different facets of our characters like diamond-cutter’s tools. Each such loss is a step leading to the grave, where all versions blend and end.
