We are always being pushed and squeezed down one road or another. We have no choice but to step forward, and then step forward again, and then step forward again; suddenly we find ourselves on a road we haven't chosen at all.

Snapshots, moments, mere seconds: as fragile and beautiful and hopeless as a single butterfly, flapping on against a gathering wind.

And when it started to get dark you pointed to the sky, and told me there was a star for every thing you loved about me.

Rainstorms are incredible: falling shards of glass, the air full of diamonds.

There's always some relief in giving up.

How can someone have the power to shatter you to dust--and also to make you feel so whole?

This is what hatred is. It will feed you and at the same time turn you to rot.