• It's the shadow of happiness and memories. It's where we belong. Little spaces like this may be cinic, but they are eternal. Call it Belzhar, your infinite or even your metaphor. It's yours. Played by your own rules. 
It's literature.

• Under the blue sky of my own mind I forgot how to breath, how to live and how to exist. I forgot myself. I lost the thing that made me. I died, but I kept living.