When we eat factory-farmed meat we live, literally, on tortured flesh. Increasingly, that tortured flesh is becoming our own.

It's true, I am afraid of dying. I am afraid of the world moving forward without me, of my absence going unnoticed, or worse, being some natural force propelling life on. Is it selfish? Am I such a bad person for dreaming of a world that ends when I do? I don't mean the world ending with respect to me, but every set of eyes closing with mine.

I hope you never think about anything as much as I think about you.

I'm sorry for my inability to let unimportant things go, for my inability to hold on to the important things.

...there are only some many times you can utter "It does not hurt" before it begins to hurt even more than the hurt.

It was terrible. All of the things we couldn't share. The room was filled with conversations we weren't having.

We are not long-term beings. Not heroes of romances in many volumes. For one gesture, for one word alone, we shall make the effort. We openly admit: our creations will be temporary. We shall have this as our aim: a gesture.