I don't really want to be the costar of anyone's life.

Patience, grasshopper," I counseled. "You don't want to seem overeager." "Right, that's why I said tomorrow," he said. "I want to see you again tonight. But I'm willing to wait all night and much of tomorrow.

Something about me has always liked the drama and inconvience of bad weather. The worse the better, really.

It's hard to believe in coincidence, but it's even harder to believe in anything else.

Leaving feels good and pure only when you leave something important, something that mattered to you. Pulling life out by the roots. But you can't do that until your life has grown roots.

And then I was asleep. That deep, can-still-taste-her-in-my-mouth sleep, that sleep that is not particularly restful but difficult to wake up from all the same.

Language buries, but does not resurrect.