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.

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

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

Love could be fractured and serve different purposes, and that intense love could be divided, between people just as easily as between moments of time.

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

It's not that photography recaptures the world you have been in; more that it creates a new one: photographs are like Post-It Notes reminding us of the deep architectonic forms of space and thought.