You don't know me. You know one me, just like I know one you. And you can't know every me, and I can't know every you.

Deep down, you see, I long to be arcane, esoteric. I would love to confound people with their own language.

It feels like I am wasting time. I mean, that's always the case. My life doesn't add up to anything.

If you tell me, I will leave you alone," I said. "And if you don't tell me, I am going to grab the nearest ghostwritten James Patterson romance novel and I am going to follow you through this store reading it out loud until you relent. Would you prefer me to read from Daphne's Three Tender Months with Harold or Cindy and John's House of Everlasting Love? I guarantee, your sanity and your indie street cred won't last a chapter. And they are very, very short chapters." Now I could see the fright beneath the defiance.

There has to be a moment at the beginning when you wonder whether you’re in love with the person or in love with the feeling of love itself.

The way you're singing in your sleep The way you look before you leap The strange illusions that you keep You don't know But I'm noticing The way your touch turns into arcs The way you slide into the dark The beating of my open heart You don't know But I'm noticing

I would always wait to take you home.