There are some things I will never talk about unless I am asked. The pain, or perhaps the memory itself, is too fragile and will never be strong enough to be vocalized. You may see my suffering, but you will not hear of it beyond what I’m willing to show.
I want something else. I’m not even sure what to call it anymore except I know it feels roomy and it’s drenched in sunlight and it’s weightless and I know it’s not cheap. It’s probably not even real.
Mark Z. Danielewski, House of Leaves