It feels a bit like my time to crumble into a million tiny pieces and disappear again. And if literature is the only religion I have, why do I pick up a book and only think of you? The meaning of my thoughts have started to float away from me, like the leaves that fall from a tree into a river. I am the tree, the world is the river. It's just that everything feels so incredibly far away from me. I should have drowned us there in the room, ended our suffering. They would have found us floating face-down in two thousand white pages. Or buried under the salt of my evaporated tears. Why did I leave? Why can't I be the kind of person to stay? When I was a girl, my life was music that was always getting louder. Everything moved me. A dog followed a stranger. That made me feel so much. A calender that showed the wrong month. That made me cry. Lately, I've thought to myself, it's a shame that we have to live, but it's a tragedy that we live only one life, because if I'd had two, I would have spent one of them with him.