I don’t think I belong here, Bekah. I don’t know where I’m from, but it’s not from round here. I don’t belong in this place. These aren’t my people.
Bekah, I don’t think in the same way as everyone else. I don’t live in the present, but in eternal remembrance of the past, and eternal contemplation of the future. That’s a line from one of my poems, but I ripped the sheet of paper up. I didn’t want anyone to know how I was feeling, because they’d only laugh.
I think I’m a changeling, Bekah. Oh, man, what did I just say? I should delete it right away – but I won’t. Let it stand, because it’s the truth:
I don’t think I’m human.