I’ve asked for too much, too much, when I thought of girls I desperately yet covertly loved, of people whom I swore I’d never forgive, of my parents, of unsaid words, of an empty balcony somewhere in the sun. What a beautiful life I have lived; what glorious memories I have owned. When I was 17, once, after playing Debussy, walking back to my dorm room, as I passed that blue lake under the April mirror sky and watched pale grasses in the dazzling light, I thought I heard them scream. I thought of dying right then and there. Now I’m 21, and I’ve never felt so happy. I’ve never felt so powerful.