“You are the lost pages of my life – the years I lost my heart.”

May the sun shine brighter on days when you feel like your battle’s getting harder.

The right hands will erase your aches for love builds more than it breaks.

She is love in its purest form; her arms, the safest place I’ve known. She is the scent of home; the warrior who carried me in her womb.

Your memory is my opium – sustaining me daily, killing me softly.

We made promises, and then life happened.

But despite it all, I’m glad we happened.

Nothing in life is worth pursuing if it means prolonging your suffering.

Am I little mad for writing someone I’ll never have?

People are much brighter and more beautiful when they talk of things they love.

Pain and loneliness can be addictive, but there can also be strength in embracing it.

Silence is a loud language – weapon of the wise, solace of the tired hearts.

I have been alone for so long that having somebody feels like a strange thought. Silence has been my most loyal compassion.

Roses are red, violets are blue, star-crossed lovers – me and you.

I believe in your dreams. The sweetest words to a writer’s ears.

Starry nights calm my thoughts and whims, but it makes me ache for all the things that could have been.

Believe in the beauty of taking things slow. Beautiful things take time. Patience is elegance.

Set a page in Fournier against another in Caslon and another in Plantin and it is as if you heard three different people delivering the same discourse – each with impeccable pronunciation and clarity, yet each through the medium of a different personality.

I read a lot of scripts, so I know by page 25 if I like it or not.

I’m scared of mediocrity, of scribing my soul on fading pages, each destined to the fate that met those before it – gently laid to rest in a growing pile of unwanted words.

Peace found me in a wordless embrace – in the rising of autumn sun, and the sound of turning pages.

It started the way it always does. A broken heart, and a blank page.

You’re trying to take something that can be described in many, many sentences and pages of prose, but you can convert it into a couple lines of poetry and you still get the essence, so it’s that compression. The best code is poetry.

Then, too, I want a book so filled with story and character that I read page after page without thinking of food or drink because a writer has possessed me, crazed with an unappeasable thirst to know what happens next.

The artist is present in every page of every book from which he sought so assiduously to eliminate himself.