Love did not have to make sense. It did not have to be worthy. It did not have to be earned. It did not have to woo. It just simply was.

He gazed up at the blue sky and knew that heaven—at least in this life—was neither a time nor a place to be grasped and made into a possession. It came in fleeting moments and then went away again to leave one nostalgic and yearning and on the verge of tears. Very much on the verge of tears. And very frightened.

He wished someone in the course of history had thought of striking that word and all its derivatives from the English Language - happy, happier, happiest, happiness. What the devil did the words really mean anyway? Why not just the word pleasure, which was far more... well, pleasant.

Was memory always as much of a burden as it could sometimes be a blessing.

I have read somewhere that we often spend a lifetime searching for what we already have.

Love, I have discovered, does not judge. It just is.

The suffering of a loved one was in many ways worse than one's one suffering because it left one feeling so very helpless.