“The summer following the winter that my mother took off into something called Women’s Land for what I could only guess would be all eternity.”

Being a man is bullshit; maybe trying to be a man had been the problem all along. At a certain point you just have to trust someone. Even if it’s only yourself.

We have learned by now that our beauty does not count as a possession. The only thing we truly own is our legend.

My father decided that there was no choice but for him to quit his despised job and take me and my brother to the beach for at least the entire summer and possibly longer.

We are renters and borrowers and, in the end, only thieves.

The world rushes through us. We are peaceful. We are as deep and black as space. Staring up at the stars, we see only our own image reflected back at us. We are infinite and we are ravenous.

Lets die. Alone. Like we always do.

Summer looks the same. But last summer she loved me.

It’s january, it’s cold and I search the sky for summer like I always do.

There is no such thing as a summer body. Your beauty is not seasonal, it is perennial. Your body need not change for your skin to enjoy the sun.

August died but summer lived on with your kiss.

Scientists with access to data from Navy submarines traversing underneath the North polar ice cap have warned that there is now a 75 percent chance that within five years the entire ice cap will completely disappear during the summer months.

We were half a summer love but a forever kind of memory.

He was the hope that died with the last day of summer.