You’re nobody’s doorway but your own, and the only one who gets to tell you how
your story ends is you.
We notice the silence of men. We depend upon the silence of women.
I’m a cat. We aren’t required to make sense.
She was a story, not an epilogue.
When Rome burned, the emperor's cats still expected to be fed on time.
Their love wanted to fix her, and refused to see that she wasn't broken.
If anything attacked us, we could just panic at it until it went away.
That's the nice thing about insanity: evil people kill you, but crazy ones try to make you understand.