Somewhere in his body--perhaps in the marrow of his bones--he would continue to feel her absence.

All imperfections are forced upon the imperfect, so the 'perfect' can live content and oblivious.

There's no such thing as perfect writing, just like there's no such thing as perfect despair.

Time, of course, topples everyone in its path equally- the way that driver beats his old horse until it dies. But the thrashing we receive is one of frightful gentleness. Few of us even realize that we are being beaten.

Understanding' is merely the sum total of our misunderstandings.

Perhaps I'm just too painstaking a type of person, but I can't grasp much of anything without putting down my thoughts in writing.

At my core, there is nothing. Neither is it parched wastelands. At my core, there is love. I'll go on loving that ten-year-old boy named Tengo forever --- his strength, his intelligence, his kindness. He does not exist here, with me, but flesh that does not exist will never die, and promises unmade are never broken.