It chills me when I behold his pale face, for the moon shows me my own features again. You spirit double, you specter with my face… You speak, but not to me. Your voice, which is mine, crackles like a phonecall from another country.
She often could not articulate her thoughts; they seemed like objects glimpsed peripherally, skittish and ungraspable, splinters and fragments that would not add up to much if bundled together; they refused to stand still for examination. For this reason, she was largely silent - Katherine Min, After The Falls