It doesn't rain every day. Just every other day.

She said if she couldn't play, she had nothing left. What about me?

But what if Shakespeare― and Hamlet― were asking the wrong question? What if the real question is not whether to be, but how to be?

I realize now that dying is easy. Living is hard.

Sometimes the wind blows you places you weren't expecting: sometimes it blows you away from those places, too.

The politeness was painful. I wanted to push through it, to return to the glow of the night of the concert, but I was unsure of how to get back there.

All night long if you want. We'll tell our secrets to the dark.