Was it really so far-fetched to think that words had a way of shaping a person's whole life?

It smelled like aging wood and creosote, plastic book covers, and old paper. Old paper, which my mom used to say was the smell of time itself.

In death, lie. In living, cry. Carry me home to remember to be remembered.

Even when I didn't know anything else about where I was or what I was supposed to be doing. You were my Wayward, even then. Everything always brought me back to you. Everything.

I almost ran you down, remember? I have to be nice to you, so you don't have me arrested.

I needed to touch her, like I needed to breathe.

we love what we love and who we love who we love and why we love why we love and find a falling shoelace knotted and strung between the fingers of strangers