The conversation was mesmerizing, not for its content but for the cadences of the talk, the rhythm we fell into when we were alone, now as before. Every conversation between friends or lovers creates its own easy or awkward rhythms, hidden talk that runs like a subterranean river under even the most banal exchange.

I loved Molly. Or at least I told myself I did. Or, if what I felt for her was not love, it was at least a plausible imitation, a convincing substitute.

Average people seldom talked about anything interesting and often hurt each other savagely.

I won't put my ignorance on an altar and call it God. It feels like idolatry, like the worst kind of idolatry.

Stupid people do stupid things, but people who are smart enough can do something really stupid.

If I am an agnostic, Calyxa, it's because I'm also a realist.

There are so many kinds of time. The time by which we measure our lives. Months and years. Or the big time, the time that raises mountains and makes stars. Or all the things that happen between one heartbeat and the next. Its hard to live in all those kinds of times. Easy to forget that you live in all of them.