“So I switch to my MacBook and make my rounds: news sites, blogs, tweets. I scroll back to find the conversations that happened without me during the day. When every single piece of media you consume is time-shifted, does that mean it’s actually you that’s time-shifted?”

“When every single piece of media you consume is time-shifted, does that mean it's actually you that's time-shifted?”

“I am so sad. I am so sad it makes me heavier than the sum of my parts. I shift, restless, but it doesn’t help. It’s like—time. All this time in here is on me, has its hooks in me. Maybe if I sleep more, I’ll wake up and I’ll feel different, but I can’t. The storm is really happening now and it makes the room feel emptier. Makes me feel emptier.”

“Every time you see a flood like that on the news you tell yourself: That’s it. That’s my heart.”

“Then let me in, because I promise you, I will pick up every little broken piece of you, every single fucking piece, Grace, and for the rest of my fucking life, I will put you back together… I’ll make you whole again.”

“The Shift hasn't happened yet, maybe it never will, but sometimes-just enough times to give me hope-my brain jars back into where it's supposed to be.”