There is so much fragility in kissing, in other people: It is all glass.

Every choice is limited. That's life.

The whole point of growing up is learning to stay on the laughing side.

Now I'd rather be infected with love for the tiniest sliver of a second than live a hundred years smothered by a lie.

For a second I feel a rush of sadness: for the horizons that vanish behind us, for the people we leave behind, the tiny-doll selves that get stored away and ultimately buried.

Everything I see and touch reminds me of him, and so everything I see and touch is perfect.

But that's the problem with love - it acts on you, works through you, resists your attempts to control.