The more you feel, the stronger you are.

Unrequited love is so boring. Weeping under a blue-black sky is for suckers or maniacs.

You are only worthy of what you prove yourself to be.

Sometimes words drew blood, they cut your tongue, they made you know things you couldn't unknow.

Feel lucky for what you have when you have it. Isn't that the point? Happily ever after doesn't mean happy forever. The ever after, what precisely was that? Your dreams, your life, your death, your everything. Was it the blank space that went on without us? The forever after we were gone?

That was the way illness appeared in a house, in the corners, in between floorboards, on the hooks in the closet, along with the sweaters and coats.

Are people drawn to each other because of the stories they carry inside?