That's the thing: We didn't really care. A world without love is also a world without stakes.

That's the way I feel, at least: like there's a real me and a reflection of me, and I have no way of telling which is which.

If singing were a feeling it would be this, this light, this lifting, like laughing.

That's what time does: We stand stubbornly like rocks while it flows all around us, believing that we are immutable - and all the time we're being carved, and shaped, and whittled away.

Still, the vivid green of the grass-where the grass is actually managing to assert itself through the dirt-seems out of place. This seems like a place where the sun should never shine: a place on the edge, at the limit, a place completely removed from time and happiness and life.

He is no longer mine to lose, but the grief is there, a gnawing sense of disbelief.

You have to learn that people are always listening.