It's hard to imagine her ever having felt lost, but it's impossible to know the people your parents were before they were your parents.

Everyone always wants to know how you can tell when it's true love, and the answer is this: when the pain doesn't fade and the scars don't heal, and it's too damned late.

Fate already warned us to pack it in. We just didn’t hear it in time.

Loneliness doesn’t exist on any single plane of consciousness. It’s generally a low throb, barely audible, like the hum of a Mercedes engine in park, but every so often the demands of the highway call for a burst of acceleration, and the hum becomes a thunderous, elemental roar, and once again you’re reminded of what this baby’s carrying under the hood.

I want to explain everything to him, show him that it’s really not as screwed up as it all sounds, but then I remember that it is.

It's sort of an organic process when you're adapting any book, not even just your own. You want to preserve the heart of the story and you want to preserve who the characters are, but film requires a lot of compression.

At this point in my life, I'm not looking for any happy endings. I'm just looking to get things started.