I created an icicle sculpture in the snow. White on white.
The information. Every bit that of information that was ever in your brain. But the information is not the mind Jenna. That we've never accomplished before. What we've done with you is groundbreaking. We cracked the code. The mind is an energy that t...
Pieces" Isn't that what all of life is anyway? Shards. Bits. Moments. Am I less because I have fewer, or do the few I have mean more? Am I just as full as anyone else? Enough? Pieces. Allys saying "I like you" Gabriel snorting out bread freeing me to...
Choice I needed it like I needed air. Bit no one could hear me. No one could listen. No words. No sound. No voice. I couldn't even dream myself away. Choices were made. None of them mine. At first I wondered if it was hell. And then I knew it was.
I see Jenna, smiling, chattering. And failing. When you are perfect, is there anywhere else to go?
Faith and science, I have learned, are two sides of the same coin, separated by an expanse so small, but wide enough that one side can't see the other. They don't know they are connected.
Faith and science, I have learned, are two sides of the same coin, separated by an expanse so small, but wide enough that one side can't see the other. They don't even know they're connected. Father and Lily were two sides of the same coin, I've deci...
It's the unknown that I fear, the bites of memories that still have no connections.
The dictionary says my identity should be all about being separate or distinct, and yet it feels like it is so wrapped up in others.
Percentages! Those are for economists, polls, and politicians. Percentages can't define your identity.
Pieces. A bit for someone here. A bit there. And sometimes they don't add up to anything whole. But you are so busy dancing. Delivering. You don't have time to notice. Or are afraid to notice. And then one day you have to look. And it's true. All of ...
My memory is coming back. It is curious how it comes. Each day, a rush of pieces, loosely connected, unimportant bits, snake through me. They click, click, click into my brain, like links being snapped together. And then they are done. A small chain ...
Some things aren't meant to be known. Only believed.
I thought grandmothers had to like you. It’s a law or something.
