“I read that good things take time – but one look at him, and I knew I could never love someone more.”

So long as we share a sky, in this life and any after – I’ll find my way back to you.

We didn’t know it was simpler, did we? Those days of sunburnt youth and carefree adventure. Knowing that indestructible optimism would waver with experience – would I have gripped it a little tighter? Held on a little longer?

In the pale light of a setting sun – I’ll hold your hand and promise to love you more, on the days that you forget to love yourself.

The rain reminds me of his voice, a perfectly composed melody in the sky. Each drop that falls against my window, a dedication to the oceans I would cross – just to sit beside him.

I think the scars that you left me, they remind me you were real.

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.

Words hold little scope, for a love that stretches far beyond the limitations of language.

Spirits dance on a velvet night, the sky it’s deepest black. In restless sleep and twisted dreams, they find themselves alive.

Your arms around me – and for the first time in years, I feel like I am home.

And in the end when the money is gone – will you still stay it was worth it.

And when I imagine my home – above all else, I’ll always think of you.

In the end it’s all the same – the hearty fire or the damp earth. I pray I’m not alone.

I feel like I’m on fire, fighting for a moment on respite – I’m not placing bets.

The bond of friendship as tight as any lover – where shoulders carry shared burden, a devotion unmatched by any other.

What use is sleep, when reality is more beautiful than my dreams could ever muster?

You are a mirage – never mine to hold. A glimering promise so tempting to chase, eternally out of reach.

Communication leads to community, that is, to understanding, intimacy and mutual valuing.

The habit of reading is the only one I know in which there is no alloy. It lasts when all other pleasures fade.

What is wonderful about great literature is that it transforms the man who reads it towards the condition of the man who wrote.

I don’t think they [contemporary writers] read me either. I mean, if we’re concerned genuinely with writing, I think we probably get on with our work.

Reading is the work of the alert mind, is demanding, and under ideal conditions produces finally a sort of ecstasy.

Good women tell all their lives, and by day and by hour and by minute, such things that angels can read.

What are you talking about? Wait a minute, you’re getting out of the zone.’ People hate when people cross lines.

I think that it’s a crime to say you are bored when time is so precious and there are so many things to do in life: read, learn, watch.