Love was one of those feelings that you could never control.

Hundreds of butts in piles on the ground to mark the spot, their lives sucked out of them by their users in panicked distressed frenzy, their souls floating around the insides of lungs while their outsides were dropped, stamped on and deserted

But even in her laughter there was something missing. She never seemed to be truly happy; she just seemed to be passing time while she waited for something else. She was tired of just existing; she wanted to live.

Some people say that you shouldn't operate from a place of fear but if there is no fear, how is there a challenge?

Memories were fine but you couldn't touch them, smell them or hold them. They were never exactly as the moment was, and they faded with time.

They say a story loses something with each telling.

Sometimes there is only one thing left to say, P. S. I Love You.