So that's how we live our lives. No matter how deep and fatal the loss, no matter how important the thing that's stolen from us--that's snatched right out of our hands--even if we are left completely changed, with only the outer layer of skin from before, we continue to play out our lives this way, in silence. We draw ever nearer to the end of our allotted span of time, bidding it farewell as it trails off behind. Repeating, often adroitly, the endless deeds of the everyday. Leaving behind a feeling of immeasurable emptiness.

There's not much you can do about time - it just keeps on passing. But experience? Don't tell me that. I'm not proud of it, but I don't have any sexual desire. And what sort of experience can a writer have if she doesn't feel passion? It'd be like a chef without an appetite.

Say it before you run out of time. Say it before it's too late. Say what you're feeling. Waiting is a mistake.

Unclose your mind. You are not a prisoner. You are a bird in flight, searching the skies for dreams.

No one could say how long that life would last. Whatever has form can disappear in an instant.

What matters is deciding in your heart to accept another person completely. When you do that, it is always the first time and the last.

I want you always to remember me. Will you remember that I existed, and that I stood next to you here like this?