But come. No explaining or mending. Be beside me somewhere.

It was the first time I had ever made love. I wondered if he knew that. It felt like crying. I wondered, Why does anyone ever make love?

She had fallen in love so many times that she began to suspect she was not falling in love at all, but doing something much more ordinary.

Why do I write? It's not that I want people to think I am smart, or even that I am a good writer. I write because I want to end my loneliness.

I was of the opinion that the past is past, and like all that is not now it should remain buried along the side of our memories.

Technology celebrates connectedness, but encourages retreat.

She was with me. She did all of those things and so many more, things I would never tell anyone, and she never even loved me. Now that’s love.