Hell is not a place, it's a state of mind and body; hell is obsession with a voice, a face, a name.
None of us can choose where we shall love.
All beauty must have its imperfections, all happiness its share of sorrow.
Happiness is like the first blissful intoxication of morphine.It doesn't last very long.
Memories are like fireflies darting across the surface of my mind, showing me here and there images so sharp and vivid that I catch my breath in wonder before the vignette disappears, sinking like a pebble into the quicksand of regret and recrimination.
I can make anything disappear, if I really want to.