Time was passing like a hand waving from a train I wanted to be on. I hope you never have to think about anything as much as I think about you.

He was not such a special person. He loved to read very much, and also to write. He was a poet, and he exhibited me many of his poems. I remember many of them. They were silly, you could say, and about love. He was always in his room writing those things, and never with people. I used to tell him, What good is all that love doing on paper? I said, Let love write on you for a little. But he was so stubborn. Or perhaps he was only timid.

Food is not rational. Food is culture, habit, and identity.

Maybe I'll try to be more patient with morons.

Weeks passed like boats waiting to sail into the starless dawn, we were full of aimless endless darkness.

Literature was the only religion her father practiced, when a book fell on the floor he kissed it, when he was done with a book he tried to give it away to someone who would love it.

Whether we change our lives or do nothing, we have responded. To do nothing is to do something.