And then you begin to give up the very idea of belonging. Suddenly this thing, this belonging, it seems some long, dirty lie... and I begin to believe that birthplaces are accidents, that everything is an accident. But if you believe that, where do you go? What do you do? What does anything matter?

All day she had been dreaming of the comet, its wild and fiery beauty, what it might mean, how her life might change.

"Someone's opinion about you does not have to become your reality because you are the only person who know what you are. "

Ik ga voor je zingen, een beetje vals misschien, maar ik zing toch. Ik zing terwijl jullie creperen, ik dans op je gore lijk...

Written By Henry Miller

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