I always think of each night as a song. Or each moment as a song. But now I'm seeing we don't live in a single song. We move from song to song, from lyric to lyric, from chord to chord. There is no ending here. It's an infinite playlist.

We were painting by numbers, starting with the greens. Because that happened to be our favorite color. And this, we figured, had to mean something.

This, I think, is how people survive: Even when horrible things have been done to us, we can still find gratitude in one another.

I would always wait to take you home.

Gone is not forgotten, but our lives cannot be a memorial. This city cannot be a memorial. This city has to be a city. Our lives have to be our lives.

The older you get, the wiser you are - this is true. But you also question what use this wisdom is.y

It was rather awkward, insofar as we were both teetering between the possibility of something and the possibility of nothing.