How Is It I Know This Little

I Did Not Know That My Entire Personality, My Entire Being, Could Be Discarded As The Byproduct Of My Anatomy. What If I Really Am Just Someone With A Large Prefrontal Cortex...and Nothing More?

I Also Don't Believe That Whatever Come After Life Depends On My Correctly Reciting A List Of My Transgressions-that Sounds Too Much Like An Erudite Afterlife To Me, All Accuracy And No Feeling.

'divergent' Was My Utopian World. I Mean, That Wasn't The Plan. I Never Even Set Out To Write Dystopian Fiction, That's Just What I Had When I Was Finished. At The Beginning, I Was Just Writing About A Place I Found Interesting And A Character With A Compelling Story, And As I Began To Build The World, I Realized That It Was My Utopia.

Out Of My Peripheral Vision, I See Four Shove The Door Open And Walk Out. Apparently This Fight Isn't Interesting Enough For Him. Or Maybe He's Going To Figure Out Why Everything's Spinning Like A Top, And I Don't Blame Him; I Want To Know The Answer Too.

I Am A Child. I Am Two Feet Tall, And Asking If She Loves Me.