If I ever tell you I’m going to sleep and then you see me posting or liking things online for about an hour immediately after that, I promise I wasn’t lying to you, I’m just bad at going to sleep and it is usually a long process that begins with disengaging from any sort of immediate contact with people (chats, for example) and ends when everything on my screen is blurry and I’m hallucinating plot points I haven’t written yet
What if I’ve forgotten the most important thing? What if somewhere inside me there is a dark limbo where all the truly important memories are heaped and slowly turning into mud?
Norwegian Wood by Haruki Murakami, page 10. (via bokura)