I am learning that a life isn't real unless someone else knows its reality. And I want my life to be real.

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

In small letters, someone has written NEVER FORGET on one of the slats. I know it's supposed to be a pledge, but it feels like a curse. Don't we have to forget some of it? Don't we have to forget this feeling? If we don't, how will we live?

And I find myself saying, “It wasn’t really about her.” And finding it’s true. What do you mean?” Norah asks. It was about the feeling, you know? She caused it in me, but it wasn’t about her. It was about my reaction, what I wanted to feel and then convinced myself that I felt, because I wanted it that bad. That illusion. It was love because I created it as love.

If you stare at the center of the universe, there is coldness there. A blankness. Ultimately, the universe doesn't care about us. Time doesn't care about us. That's why we have to care about each other.

Making love without noise is like playing a muted piano-fine for practice, but you cheat yourself out of hearing the glorious results.

And who am I to blow against the wind?