No one can tell us no. No one can make us stop. We have picked each other and the rest of the world can go to hell.

You must hurt, or be hurt.

Don't worry about what you're writing or whether it's good or even whether it makes sense.

I want to know." His words are a whisper, barely audible. "I want to know with you.

His secret name, which belongs to me, and to him, and to no one else.

Mary bring out your umbrella - The sun shines down on this fine, fine day But the ashes raining down forever Are going to turn your hair to gray. Mary keep your oars a-steady Sail away on the rising flood Keep your candle at the ready Red tides can't be told from blood. - "Miss Mary" (a common child's clapping game, dating from the time of the blitz), from Pattycake and Beyond: A History of Play

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.