“By not asking too much, you can believe in almost anything..like..a starry night in the mountains, or even the existence of fate.”

I’m not who you think I am, I had said to T.J. the last time I’d seen him. Maybe I wasn’t who I’d thought I was either.

When people went on vacation, they shed their home skins, thought they could be a new person.

It was always the same ocean, but the waves made it fresh and new each time.

After all, our families–our ancestors–are our identities. Biology is destiny.

Summer-induced stupidity. That was the diagnosis.

I suddenly understood. Mom and I weren’t trespassing. This house was ours. This view was ours. And that seemed as absurd and unreal as the stories Sailor Hat had spun for me on the ferry.

…Promises are more dangerous then secrets.

I watched the land for as long as I could, until it disappeared behind its shawl of mist.

Come find me,” Leo put in, his gaze full of understanding. “Whenever you want. I’ll be here.

And until I had it fixed in my mind – unchanged, mysterious and beautiful

My skin prickled and I looked back at the ocean. None of us ask for the things we inherit; they are thrust upon us, willy-nilly. Like The Marine.

I couldn’t think. The basics of my life seemed altered and thrown into question.

It struck me then how much the past – not just the past but history and family – was like the ocean tide.

I believe the preservation of the home in the future lies almost entirely in the hands of men.

Tolstoi’s scripts are almost indecipherable.

Alan Moore’s writing is almost novelistic. It’s very intricate and wordy and smart.

To be almost saved is to be totally lost.

You know them so well, almost as well or better than their spouse. You have to know them, warts and all.

Not all love lives forever. But is it not love still? The maybe and the almost. And the love that never will.

Makes almost everybody uncomfortable, and a few, extraordinarily rich.

Almost no one has studied health.