I Think One Of The

Usually People Look At You When They're Talking To You. I Know That They're Working Out What I'm Thinking, But I Can't Tell What They're Thinking. It Is Like Being In A Room With A One-way Mirror In A Spy Film.

Jane Austen Writes About These Humdrum Lives With Such Empathy That They Seem Endlessly Fascinating

I Want My Name To Mean Me.

On The Fifth Day, Which Was A Sunday, It Rained Very Hard. I Like It When It Rains Hard. It Sounds Like White Noise Everywhere, Which Is Like Silence But Not Empty.

Sometimes We Get Sad About Things And We Don't Like To Tell Other People That We Are Sad About Them. We Like To Keep It A Secret. Or Sometimes, We Are Sad But We Really Don't Know Why We Are Sad, So We Say We Aren't Sad But We Really Are.