...and suddenly you started singing out your love for me. My name and everything, loud enough to reach the top floors of all the buildings. I should have told you to stop, but I didn’t want you to stop. I didn’t mind if your love for me woke people up. I didn’t mind if it somehow sneaked into their sleep.

There is no reason that we should ever be ashamed of our bodies or ashamed of our love.

There are times I think of us all and I wish we were back in second grade. Not really that young. But I wish it felt like second grade. I’m not saying everyone was friends back then. But we all got along. There were groups, but they didn’t really divide. At the end of the day, your class was your class, and you felt like you were a part of it. You had your friends and you had the other kids, but you didn’t really hate anyone longer than a couple of hours. Everybody got a birthday card. In second grade, we were all in it together. Now we’re all apart.

To love--to fall--is not a question. To touch--to kiss--to speak--those are questions.

So I said I wanted you to stay, even though nothing could stay the same.

This is the trap of having something to live for: Everything else seems lifeless.

Because when something happens, she's the person I want to tell. The most basic indicator of love.