I'm not sure we get to choose when or where we find what we're looking for.

Belief isn't supposed to make sense, at least not all the time. In that, it finds its power. It gets to creep up on you and carry you forward. Until you can carry yourself again.

You can't finish the things you weren't supposed to start.

We only really remember things for five years. After that, what we remember, what's actually etched in our brain is our memory of the thing, not the thing itself. And five years after that, what's left is our memory of the memory.

Sometimes you don't know it. What you have been waiting your whole life for. You don't know until it is happening.

Why could we say more to each other when it counted less?

I couldn't help but wonder if that was what love was -- believing that someone was going to come through, in the end, and that it would still count