As if he was beating me to the punch, his words living forever, while I was left speechless, no rebuttal, no words left to say.

Writing a novel is like childbirth: once you realize how awful it really is, you never want to do it again.

He's very nice. He's something I replied. She considered this zipping her purse shut. Then she said Well everyone is. Everyone is Something. For some reason that stuck with me simple and yet not every since she'd said it. It was like a puzzle as well two vague words with one clear one between them.

Forgiveness is hard. Acceptance is doable.

From up above, in a plane passing over, you’d just see one little light in all this dark, with no idea of the lives that were being lived within it, and in the house beside, and beside that one. So much happening in the world, night and day, hour by hour. It was no wonder we were meant to sleep, if only to check out of it for a little while.

Like a word on a page that you’ve printed and read a million times, that suddenly looks strange or wrong, foreign. And you feel scared for a second, like you’ve lost something, even if you’re not sure what it is.

Then I'd crawl back into bed, smelling her all around me, and tell myself that next time, I would lock that window. But I never did.