This is the definition of happiness: a whole day stretching out ahead of me, beautiful in its emptiness and simplicity.

I mean, at the end of the day, what the hell does it matter who I end up with if it can't be you?

Otherwise I'll fall apart. I'm going to fall apart. I am falling apart.

But I don't want to be fine, not if it means she's going to let go of my hand; not if it means we're going to go back to being polite strangers.

At the end of the day it's about how much you can bear, how much you can endure. Being together, we harm nobody; being apart, we extinguish ourselves.

What else could he possibly have done? What choices did he ever have?

I might appear confident and chatty, but I spend most of my time laughing at jokes I don't find funny, saying things I don't really mean - because at the end of the day that's what we're all trying to do: fit in, one way or another, desperately trying to pretend we're all the same.