Don't do this. I love you. Don't shut me out.

We live and we die and anything else is just a delusion.

It seems that so much writing is being done in the nineteenth-century model, where every connection has to be thoroughly explained.

In a city this size, every year, hundreds of husbands walk away. Kids leave home. Wives escape. People disappear.

Stone crumbles. Wood rots. People, well they die. But things as fragile as a thought, a dream, a legend, they can go on and on.

For this moment, nothing matters. Look up into the stars and you're gone.

If it comes down to a choice between being unloved and being vulnerable and sensitive and emotional, then you can just keep your love.