How to put this feeling, this certainty, into something as limited as words?

How to put this feeling, this certainty, into something as limited as words?

We don't go to the ocean for anything as simple as happiness, do we? We go there to feel alive. Like life, the ocean holds chance and change, grief and terror and beauty. It promises mortality, not peace.

But when you slice truth too thin, you deceive.

Humans were peculiar. They were by turns squeamish and appallingly violent.

Living is very serious, very real. It is also always a game. If we are wise, it is very real, very terrible, and very lovely, and a good deal of fun.

This was what she needed… the quiet turning to the other in the middle of the night, the wordless meeting of lips, skin, breath. The trust, unfurling one pale petal at a time, that he would be there.