Language is like looking at a map of somewhere. Love is living there and surviving on the land.

Actually, years mean nothing. It's what's inside them.

The present grows within the boundaries of the past.

I want to feel it somehow happened like that because things happen for a reason. I want to believe this more than anything because if it were just an accident, then God must have died before he could finish the world.

You were unsure which pain is worse -- the shock of what happened or the ache for what never will.

I think we keep these moments of rejection and acceptance very close. I think we carry them always, like cracked shells from which a part of us once hatched.

But say you do find the right people - how do you love them without smothering them?...How do you not suffocate them with all the love you've built up in their absence?