In the manuscript, I write: There are nights when death is not philosophical. Nights when death just lingers there, at the edge of the bed. Another body, another presence, another self. The knowledge that every tenderness contains the possibility of its end.
There is no universal "sign" of intelligence. No behavioural checklist, hobby, personality trait, aesthetic preference, social quirk, or intellectual affectation. The obsession with identifying "signs of intelligence" is just another societal caste hierarchy categorisation system
My 9th grade English teacher told us that, before we speak, we should always ask ourselves three questions: 1) Does this need to be said?, 2) Does this need to be said BY ME?, and 3) Does this need to be said by me RIGHT NOW? I think about this advice often.