Losing people you love affects you. It is buried inside of you and becomes this big, deep hole of ache. It doesn't magically go away, even when you stop officially mourning.

Is everyone as wrong about me as I am about them?

Why are there no names for the abscence of things? Why is there no name for the abscence of humanity?

It is love which made all this. War which protects it. With love comes responsibility and possibility, fear and hopes, quests and suffering.

He has an armload of irises and daisies and tulips and he presents them to me. I didn't know what kind of flowers you like.I like them all.Yeah?Yeah.He tries to hand them to me, but then remembers the cast. I'll put them in water.Betty swoops in the room ridiculously fast and she grabs the flowers out of Nick's hands. I'll take care of them. You lovebirds just sit on the couch and think swooning things at each other.

Loving you is a full-time job. It's a great job, don't get me wrong. It's the best job in the universe. But it's not easy.

There is something about libraries, old libraries, that makes them seem almost sacred. There's a smell of paper and must and binding stuff. It's like all the books are fighting against decay, against turning into dust, and at the same time fighting for attention.