Someone real," I hear myself saying. "Someone who never has to pretend, and who I never have to pretend around. Someone who's smart, but knows how to laugh at himself. Someone who would listen to a symphony and start to cry, because he understands music can be too big for words. Someone who knows me better than I know myself. Someone I want to talk to first thing in the morning and last thing at night. Someone I feel like I've known my whole life, even if I haven't.

He rises over me, a second sun, and fills me with light and heat.

All writers start with a layer of truth, don't they? If not, their stories would be nothing but spools of cotton candy, a fleeting taste wrapped around nothing but air.

When you care more if someone else lives than you do about yourself- is that what [love is]?

If you've lived through it, you already know there are no words that will ever come close to describing it, and if you didn't - you will never understand.

When it's all over, you're remembered for what you did, not what you said you were going to do.

For someone who can’t remember very much, there seems to be a lot I can’t forget.