We listened to them, but it was clear they'd received too much therapy to know the truth.

He had the feeling that there was something physically behind his eyes, blocking the light.

Heartbreak is funny to everyone but the heartbroken.

Regret, already sogging me down, burst its dam. It seeped into my legs, it pooled in my heart.

Now all the mute objects of my life seem to tell my story, to stretch back in time, if I look closely enough.

Words, words, word. Once, I had the gift. I could make love out of words as a potter makes cups of clay. Love that overthrows empire. Love that binds two hearts together, come hellfire & brimstone. For sixpence a line, I could cause a riot in a nunnery. But now -- I have lost my gift. It's as if my quill is broken, as if the organ of my imagination has dried up, as if the proud -illegible word- of my genius has collapsed.

We listened to them, but it was clear they'd received too much therapy to know the truth.