I preferred to look at the sea, which said nothing and never made you feel alone.

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

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

Nothing hurts if you don't let it.

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

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.

More and more I find myself at a loss for words and didn't want to hear other people talking either. Their conversations seemed false and empty. I preferred to look at the sea, which said nothing and never made you feel alone.