“And when I can't speak it, I write it down. I wish I was different. Wish I was taller, smarter, could talk out loud the way I write things down. I wish I didn't always feel like I was on the outside, looking in like a Peeping Tom.”
“I wish i could write them down, these little coloured parables or poems that live for a moment in some cell of my brain, and then leave it to go wandering elsewhere. I hate writing; the mere act of writing a thing down is troublesome to me. I want some fine medium, and look for it in vain.”
“I wish I could write as mysterious as a cat.”
“Just once, he looks back at Arsay, and I feel like an entire encyclopedia of information and words is exchanged between them. I wish I could speak telepathy too.”
“I don’t write poetry when I wish, I write when I can’t, when my larynx is flooded and my throat is shut.”
“Sometimes I feel like this. Sometimes I feel like that. I wish I could be more specific, but that’s how I feel—vague.”