"And each day brings it's pretty dust, Our soon-choked souls to fll And we forget because we must, And not because we will."

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We're here, there, not here, not there, swirling like specks of dust, claiming for ourselves the rights of the universe. Being important, being nothing, being caught in lives of our own making that we never wanted. Breaking out, trying again, wondering why the past comes with us, wondering how to talk about the past at all.

— Jeanette Winterson