Close friends consider me a literary snob.

For me, soccer was a dance.

Nobody ever said I'm a simple personality.

My mind becomes congested, jammed with feelings and thoughts that I can’t formulate nimbly enough.

I thought I’d be reading a new book today, but it doesn’t feel right, or I don’t feel like it. Some days are not new-book days. After.

Later, much later, as an adult woman, she wrote of her need to be loved, to be desired, as a ravenous monster with an exigent appetite living in a black hole within. Whatever love was thrown her way, the monster devoured it and left her with nothing.

My patience, like my time in this world, grows shorter.

Nick commenced a monologue explaining the impossibility of such a phenomenon: the subordination of content to the aesthetics of language in Arabic literature, the dominance of panegyrics and eulogies as an art form, etc.

Joy is the anticipation of joy. Reading a fine book for the first time is as sumptuous as the first sip of orange juice that breaks the fast in Ramadan.

One reason we desire explanations is that they separate us and make us feel safe.