And I come to realise that all my small todays, the way I act, will lead into my tomorrows.

When you think you are in love, you don't want to know about the things that could end it.

When you can stop you don't want to, and when you want to stop, you can't.

If time stood still, and we could choose the time, the best time, then love without pain would be all I know.

Everything comes to nothing in the end, I suppose. Or at least, nothing happens exactly the way we imagine it.

What passes relentlessly through the years is blood, and time; all the bitterness or warmth along the way is almost incidental. Even blood gets forgotten eventually, bleached into myth which are bleached of all colour into ashes of myth.

You're beautiful, but you're somewhere else. That's okay. I can handle that. But we won't continue as friends, not just now. I like you as a lover, not a friend.