“We number our days and divide our seasons. We endlessly define what it is to be in love. When in truth, spring blurs into summer and always has, long before that line was ever drawn.”

Sometimes I am caught between poetry and prose, like two lovers I can’t decide between. Prose says to me, let’s build something long and lasting. Poetry takes me by the hand, and whispers, come with me, let’s get lost for awhile.

Every day I measure the weight of my past against the present and feel the drag of what could have been.

It is only the year that is ending. So why does it feel like the world is?

He and I When words run dry, he does not try, nor do I. We are on par. He just is, I just am, and we just are.

In many ways, a book is, in itself, a tiny universe. Each page is like a newly formed galaxy, fashioned from a single, pulsing thought. A book travels for days, for years, sometimes for centuries to meet you at an exact point in time.

Now I know being close to you was never about the proximity.

But how could I have stopped him from taking what was already his?

If you love me for what you see, only your eyes would be in love with me.

But if you don’t love my every flaw, then you mustn’t love me- not at all.

If they were meant to be in your life, nothing cover ever make them leave. If they weren’t, nothing in the world could make them stay.

There are things we sacrifice for love, that we willingly give. But no one who loves you will ever ask you to give up more than you are willing.

I build my walls from the mess they leave.

Where the strangers we meet, take us down one way streets, and forgetting is something we’re taught.

You are a writer bleeding words onto a page. And the ones who hate you will trample on that page. And the ones who love you will cut you, to keep you bleeding.

I think there is a sense of ownership in knowing, isn’t there? You let people in, and they claim parts of you-they fly their flag over uncharted territory and from then onward-you cease to belong wholly to yourself.

There is a savagery to what you feel. It eats you up inside. But you will get through it; you don’t need his mouth to placate you. You don’t need his hands to untangle the butterfly knot in your heart. Your love is a fire that will burn itself out. Let it ravage you.

I can’t take another day of this.

I’m walking every day and just staying kind of fit, and try not to have too many bad habits. Keep it minimal.

Every day from 10 to 6, we’d go in there and pretend that we were 13 year old girls and write these songs. That was the gig.

Live every day as if it were Saturday night.

I see the other players dressing different every day. I’ve got only one suit and I keep wearing it over and over. I’m really embarrassed.

The nicest thing about coaching is that one day you feel like you can play handball against a curb, and on other days you feel like you can fly to the moon.

A very few minutes, because seven days later I was in the studio, and eight days later, I was no the stage.

Every day is Thanksgiving for me, man. Yeah, I still have an audience, and they ask the local promoter, “When is Al coming back?”