Lost love is still love. It takes a different form, that's all. You can't see their smile or bring them food or tousle their hair or move them around a dance floor. But when those senses weaken another heightens. Memory. Memory becomes your partner. You nurture it. You hold it. You dance with it.

Strangers are just family you have yet to come to know.

She loved me coming and going, at my worst and at my best. She had a bottomless well of love for me.

How do people choose their final words? Do they realize their gravity? Are they fated to be wise?

A heart weighs more when it splits in two; it crashes in the chest like a broken plane.

Something is always happening somewhere.

I thought about all the people I knew who spent many of their waking hours feeling sorry for themselves. How useful it would be to put a daily limit on self-pity. Just a few tearful minutes, then on with the day.