Game over," you say, and I don't know which I take more exception to-- the fact that you say its over, or the fact that you say it's a game.

I am breathing. In dreams, we never bother to breathe.

I don't get this at all. It's like protesting the fact that some people are red-haired.

The ocean makes its music; the wind does its dance. We hold on. At first we hold on to one another, but then it starts to feel like we are holding on to something even bigger than that. Greater.

Dispel, v. It was the way you said, “I have something to tell you.” I could feel the magic drain from the room.

The key is to never recognize these imbalances. To not let the dauntingness daunt us.

I hate the way you talk to me, and the way you cut your hair. I hate the way you drive my car. I hate it when you stare. I hate your big dumb combat boots, and the way you read my mind. I hate you so much it makes me sick; it even makes me rhyme. I hate it, I hate the way you're always right. I hate it when you lie. I hate it when you make me laugh, even worse when you make me cry. I hate it when you're not around, and the fact that you didn't call. But mostly I hate the way I don't hate you. Not even close, not even a little bit, not even at all.