How inevitable it is; we step into an ordinary moment and never come out again.

Cynicism is easy. An optimist is a braver cynic.

The Irish are great for their tunes, but all their lovesongs are sad and their warsongs happy.

One small cloud, cast out by the herd, limps away to the west.

There are rocks deep enough in this earth that no matter what the rupture, they will never see the surface. There is, I think, a fear of love. There is a fear of love.

She's always thought that one of the beauties of New York is that you can be from anywhere and within moments of landing its yours.

I'm a complete and utter fiction. Then again, we all are.