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

All that was left for me was a terrible kind of paralysis, this waiting game, this heartbreak game.

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

But when Bumby nursed, his fist clutching the fabric of my robe, his eyes soft and bottomless and locked on mine, as if I were the very heart of his universe, I couldn't help but melt into him.

There was only today to throw yourself into without thinking about tomorrow, let alone forever. To keep you from thinking, there was liquor, an ocean's worth at least, all the usual vices and plenty of rope to hang yourself with. Love is a beautiful liar.

If I can write one sentence, simple and true every day, I'll be satisfied.