Is it possible to tell the truth in a society of lies? Or must you always, of necessity, become a liar?

There's always some relief in giving up.

The reason you can never go home again isn't necessarily that places change, but people do. So nothing ever looks the same.

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

I wonder if it's ever really possible to know the truth about someone else, or if the best we can do is just stumble into each other, heads down, hoping to avoid collision. I...wonder how many people are clutching secrets like little fists, little rocks sitting in the pits of their stomachs. All of them, maybe.

Mice? Fine. Flying mice? Not so fine.

I know that the whole point—the only point—is to find the things that matter, and hold on to them, and fight for them, and refuse to let them go.