The rain that fell on the city runs down the dark gutters and empties into the sea without even soaking the ground

Pointless thinking is worse than no thinking at all.

It seems to me, though, that you always understand very well what I can't say very well. Trouble is I end up being even worse at saying things well.

One impossible day, of an impossible month, of an impossible year.

Some people can work their butts off and never get what they're aiming for while others can get it without any effort at all.

How about Proust's In Search of Lost Time?" Tamaru asked. "If you've never read it this would be a good opportunity to read the whole thing." "Have you read it?" "No, I haven't been in jail, or had to hide out for a long time. Someone once said unless you have those kinds of opportunities, you can't read the whole of Proust.

I stare at her chest. As she breathes, the rounded peaks move up and down like the swell of waves, somehow reminding me of rain falling softly on a broad stretch of sea. I'm the lonely voyager standing on deck, and she's the sea. The sky is a blanket of gray, merging with the gray sea off on the horizon. It's hard to tell the difference between sea and sky. Between voyager and sea. Between reality and the workings of the heart.