Facts interest me less than the trailing smoke of stories.

For you who came so far; for you who held out, wearing a black scarf to signify grief; for you who believe true love can find you amidst this atlas of tears linking one town to its own memory of mortar, when it was still a dream to be built and people moved there, believing, and someone with sky and birds in his heart said this would be a good place for a park.

Today you will say things you can predict and other things you could never imagine this minute. Don't reject them, let them come through when they're ready, don't think you can plan it al out. This day will never, no matter how long you live, happen again. It is exquisitely singular. It will never again be exactly repeated.

When allowed to return to the class, your feelings of humility and lonesomeness will render you a much finer student and person.

Being alive is a common road. It's what we notice makes us different.

Sometimes there’s no one to listen to what you really might like to say at a certain moment. The paper always listens.

It was terrible when a single conversation with someone determined your whole future relationship.