In the end, everyone loses everyone.

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?

We are lying to ourselves and to each other. Lying about what? I don't care if we're lying. I am a bad person. I don't care. I don't care what you are.

Why didn't I learn to treat everything like it was the last time. My greatest regret was how much I believed in the future.

If it had and answer, it wouldn't really be love, would it?

I love the idea of books being more than books, or being, rather, something other than books.

We live in a world made up more of story than stuff. We are creatures of memory more than reminders, of love more than likes.