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

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.

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.

Some people are attracted to sickness, to the kind of madness where sparks fly off the head, to the incoherence of despair, masked by nervous energy, which winds up looking like bewildered joy.

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

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

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.