I'd like to cry now. Don't know how.

Torch every book. Burn every page. Char every word to ash. Ideas are incombustible. And therein lies your real fear.

No one teaches you how to walk away from someone who you know loves you. NO one teaches you how to say good-bye.

Imperfections create character.

Memory is a tenuous thing. . . . flickering glimpses, blue and white, like ancient, decomposing 16mm film. Happiness escapes me there, where faces are vague and yesterday seems to come tied up in ribbons of pain. Happiness? I look for it intead in today, where memory is something I can still touch, still rely on. I find it in the smiles of new friends, the hope blossoming inside. My happiest memories have no place in the past; they are those I have yet to create.

You can have your pick of pretty women. Why me? You're like the ocean, Pattyn. Pretty enough on the surface, but dive down into your depths, you'll find beauty most people never see. Lucky me. I fell in, headfirst.

I want to open myself, let him inside. But how do I give what has already been taken?