Loneliness is a mirror, and recognizes itself.

Just because fate had thrown another obstacle in my way didn't mean I had to give up my dreams.

Fiction is like that, once it is released into the world: contagious, persistent. Like the contents of Pandora's box, a story that's freely given can't be contained anymore. It becomes infectious, spreading from the person who created it to the person who listens, and passes it on.

That's the crazy thing about lies. You start to fall for them, yourself.

As anyone who's ever contracted it knows, lies are an infectious disease. They slip under the almond slivers of your fingernails and into your bloodstream.

My dad used to say that living with regrets was like driving a car that only moved in reverse.

Because the more you changed, the less of you there was.