What you had could never make up for what you'd lost.

I was starting to see that what looks like garbage from one angle might be art from another. Maybe it did take a crisis to get to know yourself; maybe you needed to get whacked hard by life before you understood what you wanted out of it.

People had figured out all sorts of ways to make things seem different than they truly were.

Things break all the time. Day breaks, waves break, voices break. Promises break. Hearts break.

I would figure out, later, how to explain to my boss that, for me, Delia will never be a story, but a happy ending.

This must be what an addict feels like, I think, trying to fight the pull of one last, quick read. My fingers itch toward the binding, and finally, with a sigh of regret, I just grab the book and open it, hungrily reading the story.

I know that there will be other women, but they couldn't compare. Maybe I'll change, maybe love will change, but I think we were a once-in-a-lifetime. You could never leave me; that's why I am not more upset. You can't possibly break these feelings. They stretch, and they last.