I am not meant to be alone and without you who understands.

They are the we of me.

It is a curious emotion, this certain homesickness I have in mind. With Americans, it is a national trait, as native to us as the roller-coaster or the jukebox. It is no simple longing for the home town or country of our birth. The emotion is Janus-faced: we are torn between a nostalgia for the familiar and an urge for the foreign and strange. As often as not, we are homesick most for the places we have never known.

The trouble with me is that for a long time I have just been an I person. All people belong to a We except me. Not to belong to a We makes you too lonesome.

How can the dead be truly dead when they still live in the souls of those who are left behind?

Death is the great gamer with a sleeve of tricks.

There are the lover and the beloved, but these two come from different countries.