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

And that's when he finally tells me his name is Ernest. I'm thinking of giving it away, though. Ernest is so dull, and Hemingway? Who wants a Hemingway?

... and yet he could also be very charming, in a bookish, infinitely apologetic way.

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

And sometimes I think there isn’t anything to us but our mistakes.

It gave me a sharp kind of sadness to think that no matter how much I loved him and tried to put him back together again, he might stay broken forever.

The very rich only admire themselves