People think they know the mystery of living in your skin. They don't. There's no one who knows except the person who carts it around her own self.

And I suddenly think, as I look across the table at him, that these are the days as they will be. This is the future as we see it. The swerve and the static. The confidence and the doubt.

Sometimes we just walk into something that is not for us at all. We pretend it is. We think we can shrug it off like a coat, but it's not a coat at all, it's more like another skin. [...] All I wanted was to make my life thrilling for a while: to take the oridinary objects of my days and make a different argument out of them, no obligations to my past.

This is not my life. These are not my cobwebs. This is not the darkness I was designed for.

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

So much of her time spent like this: dreaming up things to say and never quite saying them.

There are no days more full than those we go back to.