And yes, again, that was it exactly. A retyper and not a writer. A prodigy and not a genius.

But monotony doesn't make for painlessness.

You have a choice in this world, I believe, about how to tell sad stories, and we made the funny choice.

We have this weird thing in the world where you don't get insulted for what you do, you get insulted for who you are.

I couldn't hear a thing in the world but you. And it was so cold then, and so silent, and I loved you so much. Now it's hot and dead quiet again, and I love you still.

And I agreed, but still, she owed us an explanation. If she was up there, down there, out there, somewhere, maybe she would laugh.

In my opinion, actual heroism, like actual love, is a messy, painful, vulnerable business—and I wanted to try to reflect that.