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.

Imperceptibly, more time passes when I'm not remembering our every moment together, not recreating our every conversation, re-imagining our love-making. It is immeasurably sad.

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.

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

Drought brings out the worst in us and it's easy to hate your fellow human beings.

The wonder to me is not that she made it through at all but that she made it through so relatively intact, so vibrant. So free of bitterness and so empty of resentment.