Snippets

I want to be in Lisbon. Or just somewhere you are. I want to stand on the windowsill of an eighteen storey building and fly. You shoot me down, but I won't fall. Maybe falling is what it's all about. I want to know that sensation. Do you really want me to remove you from here?

I'm not ready for it to be December. It used to be my favourite month before life entangled itself with death. Snow. Ice skating down hills in trainers. Sledging. Advent calendars and Christmas trees. Now the magic of Christmas is tinged with sadness. I want to hibernate. December makes me want to cry now.

I'd hate to be locked in. I need that freedom. Can't we just skip to pancake day?

This is what I want my memoir to look like: snippets of memory. I want to abandon chronological order entirely.