Now something so sad has hold of us that the breath leaves and we can't even cry.
She was desperate and she was choosey at the same time and, in a way, beautiful, but she didn't have quite enough going for her to become what she imagined herself to be.
Find what you love and let it kill you.
This incompleteness is all we have.
Sundays kill more people than bombs.
Success is always dangerous. It can make an asshole out of anybody.