I think, in this strange world of beautiful things, there may be some humanity after all.

I don't dare touch her. Loss is a knowledge I'm sorry to have. Perhaps the only thing worse than experiencing it, is watching it replay anew in someone else--all the awful stages picking up like a chorus that has to be sung.

There's a sort of dead passion in him. A spark that, had he more years to live, would be a wildfire.

The months fall to shards at my feet.

I like the idea of something greater than us. We destroy things with our curiosity. We shatter with our best intentions. We are no closer to perfection than we were one hundred years ago, or five hundred.

There was a desperate undercurrent to our marriage--a feeling of being in a dream from which I couldn't seem to awaken. A nagging sense that my life, laid out so neatly like the clothes Deirdre left on my divan, was no longer my own.

There is a dark place calling to me, but I will not go just yet. I know I can't return from it.