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Eg vågar å fortelje deg kva som kjem etterpå berre fordi sjansane for at dette brevet kjem fram til deg, er små - det at det er umogleg for deg å lese dette, er det einaste som gjer det mogleg for meg å skrive det.
Mamma. Ein gong sa du til meg at minnet er eit val. Men viss du var gud, så ville du vite at det er ein flaum.
"Alt som er bra, er ein annan stad, skatten. Eg seier det berre. Alt."
Nothing could be taken from me, I tought, if I had already given it away.
In Vietnamese, the word for missing someone and remembering them is the same.
They say nothing lasts forever but they're just scared it will last longer than they can love it.
To look at something is to fill your whole life with it, if only briefly.
You spoke carefully, as if the story was a flame in your hands in the wind.
Sometimes being offered tenderness feels like the very proof that you've been ruined.
Violence was already mundane to me, was what I knew, ultimately, of love.