This is not something insignificant. This is real. This is happening, and this is ours.

A photograph it a souvenir of a memory. It is not a moment. It is the looking at the photograph that becomes the moment. Your own moment.

The truth feels different from other things. The closest you can come to describing it is that it feels like taking a perfect breath.

But the thing about a cry for help is that someone else needs to be around to hear it.

You know what happens to girls who loves lost boys? They become lost themselves.

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

I wake up thinking of yesterday. The joy is in remembering; the pain is in knowing it was yesterday.