A tragedy's first act is crowded with supporting players: witnesses crimping their faces, policemen scribbling in pads and making radio calls, EMS guys unfolding equipment, tubes and wheels.

A tragedy's first act is crowded with supporting players: witnesses crimping their faces, policemen scribbling in pads and making radio calls, EMS guys unfolding equipment, tubes and wheels.

Love wasn't a thing you fell in, but rose to. It was what stopped you from falling.

When you know you are dying, self-deceptions fly from your bedside like embers off a bonfire.

The cracks in old friendships are measured in awkward pauses.

Regret doesn't budge things; it seems crazy that the force of all that human want can't amend a moment, can't even stir a pebble.

Passion and platonic friendliness, often contrary siblings, frequently wear similar faces to hide the great distance between them.