He was in love, and people in that condition did stupid, unfathomable things. They were all flawed, every single one.

She liked to disappear, even when she was in the same room as other people. It was a talent, as it was a curse.

Our rest is formed by our waking life and our waking life is formed by our sorrows.

She was disappearing a little more each day, so thin, so frail, a wisp of smoke. One day she would surely vanish altogether, and there was no way to stop her.

Among men and women, those in love do not always announce themselves with declarations and vows. But they are the ones who weep when you're gone. Who miss you every single night, especially when the sky is so deep and beautiful, and the ground so very cold.

It's not the lie that's the problem; it's the distance the lie forges between you.

I wrote to find beauty and purpose, to know that love is possible and lasting and real, to see day lilies and swimming pools, loyalty and devotion, even though my eyes were closed, and all that surrounded me was a darkened room. I wrote because that was who I was at the core, and if I was too damaged to walk around the block, I was lucky all the same. Once I got to my desk, once I started writing, I still believed anything was possible.