For the first time I am confronted with the fact that places and people are like things: both made of memories and meaningful to us in the same way: we construct ourselves in our conversations with them.

A city is all about how you look at it.

People who ran away are friends!

My dear, you are not one person. You have many people in you, and each one can ask only some kinds of questions.

Now, standing here, it is clear as day: more than anything else, you want to find words for what you feel and think and everything that is dark. And then this terrifying thought hits you: Yes, your father wrote poetry to find a language for his wounds. Yes, you in your own way have become your father.

What appears strange and complex becomes stranger and more complicated once you begin to investigate it. That's the true nature of the world.