But in the end, fighting for a love that was already gone felt like trying to live in the ruins of a lost city.

Maybe happiness was an hourglass already running out, the grains tipping, sifting past each other. Maybe it was a state of mind.

Happiness is so awfully complicated, but freedom isn't. You're either tied down or you're not.

Why is it every other person you meet says they're an artist? A real artist doesn't need to gas on about it, he doesn't have time. He does his work and sweats it out in silence, and no one can help him at all.

I'd never met anyone so vibrant or alive. He moved like light.

I hope we'll get lucky enough to grow old together.

My life was my life; I would have to stare it down, somehow, and make it work for me.