Theres nothing like reading about a world that feels dead to throw your own beautiful, colorful life into sharp relief.

I want to reach out and grab his hand and hold it to me, right over my heart, right where it aches the most. I don't know if doing that would heal me or make my heart break entirely, but either way this constant hungry waiting would be over.

I'm just a butterfly, a mourning cloak, sealed inside a cocoon with blnd eyes and stiky wings. And suddenly I wonder if the cocoons sometimes do not open, if the butterfly inside is ever simply not strong enough to break through.

Every minute you spend with someone gives them a part of your life and takes part of theirs.

I think of how perhaps the best way to fly would be with hands full of earth, so you always remember where you came from.

It's been so long since I've let myself feel anger that I don't just feel it. It covers my mouth and I swallow it down, the taste sharp and metal as though I'm gnawing through foilware.

We can either try to change everything or just make the most of whatever time we have.