Liz looks at the tissue box, which is decorated with drawings of snowmen engaged in various holiday activities. One of the snowmen is happily placing a smiling rack of gingerbread men in an oven. Baking gingerbread men, or any cooking for that matter, is probably close to suicide for a snowman, Liz thinks. Why would a snowman voluntarily engage in an activity that would in all likelihood melt him? Can snowmen even eat? Liz glares at the box.

Life used to move much more quickly when I was a girl. We needed to abbreviate just to keep up.

It is a lie that people who love each other must know everything about each other. Love must occasionally allow for a gap.

The truth is, sometimes too much can happen in a relationship, and then there's nothing anyone can do or say. It's broken.

A life isn't measured in hours and minutes. It's the quality, not the length.

Diving is a leap of faith plus gravity.

And when she dreams, she dreams of a girl who was lost at sea but one day found the shore.