We are all a volume on a shelf of a library, a story unto ourselves, never possibly described with one word or even very accurately with thousands. A person is never as quiet or unrestrained as they seem, or as bad or good, as vulnerable or as strong, as sweet or as fiesty; we are thickly layered, page upon lying page, behind simple covers. And love - it is not the book itself, but the binding. It can rip us apart or hold us together.

The loneliness you feel with another person, the wrong person, is the loneliest of all.

When what you want is a relationship, and not a person, get a dog.

Empathy took the edge off, and the truth is, we need our edge. Our edge is trying to speak to us, and we are too, too good at shutting it up.

Blessed books—they’re a place to be alone, and no one else can come in.

so what brings you to the doctor today?" "hmm, im afraid i have the chronic desire to save people" "i know about that. i've got it too. maybe it's catching." "not catching enough

A drop of poison on that gathering snow. That moment in the fairy tale when we know what just happened but the princess doesn’t.