The sparrows jumped before they knew how to fly, and they learned to fly only because they had jumped.

Amor deliria nervosa isn't a disease of love. It's a disease of selfishness.

I know the past will drag you backward and down, have you snatching at whispers of wind and the gibberish of trees rubbing together, trying to decipher some code, trying to piece together what was broken. It's hopeless. The past is nothing but a weight. It will build inside you like a stone.

Poetry isn't like any writing I've ever heard before. I don't understand all of it, just bits of images, sentences that appear half-finished, all fluttering together like brightly colored ribbons in the wind.

I feel a flash of grief so intense it almost makes me cry out: not for what I lost, but for the chances I missed.

I still wanted to know why. As though somebody was going to answer that for me, as though any answer would be satisfying.

i suppose that's the secret, if you're ever wishing for things to back the way they were. You just have to look up.