Things pass us by. Nobody can catch them. That's the way we live our lives.

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

But if you peeled away the ornamental egos that she had built, there was only an abyss of nothingness and the intense thirst that came with it.

Only where there is disillusionment and depression and sorrow does happiness arise; without the despair of loss, there is no hope.

Such wounds to the heart will probably never heal. But we cannot simply sit and stare at our wounds forever.

In his or her own way, everyone I saw before me looked happy. Whether they were really happy or just looked it, I couldn't tell. But they did look happy on this pleasant early afternoon in late September, and because of that I felt a kind of loneliness new to me, as if I were the only one here who was not truly part of the scene.

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