But we can't know better until knowing better is useless.

The feeling of loving her and being loved by her welled up in him, and he could taste the adrenaline in the back of his throat, and maybe it wasn't over, and maybe he could feel her hand in his again and hear her loud, brash voice contort itself into a whisper to say I-love-you as if it were a secret, and an immense one.

She was loved deeply, but not widely

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

I love being in cities with lots of other people, because I'm reminded that there are billions of people like me, and we are each stuck inside of our minds, feverishly trying to crawl out to make connections with other people.

I'm a good person but a shitty writer. You're a shitty person but a good writer. We'd make a good team.

She had the kind of fingers you want to interlace with your own.