Behind Her Eyes

Pinch myself and say I AM AWAKE once an hour.
Look at my hands. Count my fingers.
Look at clock (or watch), look away, look back.
Stay calm and focused.
Think of a door.

Love dies hard

To trust the truth of a thing, you have to suffer the thing. You have to get mud on your hands and dirt under your fingernails.

I know he’s been to see her. To warn her. He really does love her, which of course pleases me in one way, but in another I want to take one of our Sabatier knives and go upstairs and cut out his ungrateful fucking heart.

If only she knew.

That’s the thing I’m learning about affairs. They breed lies.

The course of true love never did run smooth.

My tiredness is going to have to wait.
After all, I can sleep when I’m dead.

Let’s say two people experience exactly the same thing – ask them to recount the event later and, although their versions might be similar, there will always be differences. The truth is different to different people.

Poor Davi

It’s strange how different we all appear to who we really are.