Keep going' she told herself, 'Don't look back.' But she looked anyways.

It’s just that you go so crazy being alone like that. Sometimes he’d forget my water or food and I’d cry and cry and cry.” She stops talking and looks out the window. “I would try to tell myself stories to pass the time. Fairy tales. Parts of books. But they got used up.

He wondered whether growing up was learning that most stories turned out to be lies.

She knew what it felt like to tremble like that before touching someone -- desire so acute that it became despair.

Mine. The language of love is like that, possessive. That should be the first warning that it's not going to encourage anyone's betterment.

It makes you a different person, to not have a past. It eats away at who you are, until what’s left is all construct, all artifice.

To remind me, pain is the best teacher