There is something about her eyes. Eyes don't breathe. I know that much. But hers look breathless.

Maybe there was no one way to define it. Maybe there were as many shades of love as the blues of the sky.

I wonder at the weight of a Sparrow.

I just think perfection and lasting through the ages is for Greek statues, not us mere humans.

We all have a dark place in us. It's what we do with it and the choice we make.

It's other people who make us wise, and I haven't known nearly enough.

I don't want five hundred billion neural chips. I want guts.