881.

Quiet. and Sad. the sounds of the city.

880.

You smell like a rambutan.

879.

No, I'm not sleepy yet.

878.

She forgot why anyone should like her — was it her quiet demeanor, her obnoxious opinions, her unconscious gestures? — what a preposterous idea!

877.

Being strong was simply a matter of trying not to cry.

876.

Her life was a prison. Because her life was a lie.

875.

Twenty-three minutes past midnight and I write this.