“When you write me into your story, don’t set my end in stone. Feel free to let me go. I’d like to join your story, but remember I have my own.”

My body is a field site of muscle memory and weathered bones.

I can’t take it all in or else I’ll grow cold when the heat already escapes my fingers and toes.

I wish you could feel it when it’s dark at night, and I think of you when I pass the streetlights. But I know you feel the care without me being there.

Healing means looking within when you want to move on. Healing means letting go when your grip is too tight.

I want to tell them how tired I am because I don’t think it shows. But maybe it’s the same for them – all strangers to the weight each of us carries. So alone, we carry these loads.

Reading has always been my sweetest escape, but I write to convey that which I want to escape or what scares me to say, even if it’s something positive.

We’re so distant, words can’t save us.

I lost touch with the world around me – gone unnoticed by that which surrounds me, but I must find the presence of that which grounds me if I am to once again grasp onto everything I lost touch with.

It takes less for me to be impacted, for my state of being to worsen.

You wonder why you didn’t do it sooner – why you didn’t clear your mind when the clouds loomed.

I was never lonely alone because love has come to me in many forms, and one of them was you.

And I saw forever in your eyes ‘til the sunset started to dim your light. You told me you’d always hold me tight, but your warmth faded with the bright.

You are chaos in my heart – clogging up my arteries. I can’t move on or bring in more love than what was at the start

They tell me summer is coming, and soon we’ll be dancing on the shore. Waiting for the moonlight to light me up amongst the starlight.

I try to build myself a bridge to cross every time I start to ruminate on my thoughts.

To the songs you haven’t heard from me. To the pains you haven’t felt for me.

My own experience is that once a story has been written, one has to cross out the beginning and the end. It is there that we authors do most of our lying.

Perception is a tool that’s pointed on both ends.

Audiences and, to a large extent, critics who want less from theater than it is possible for it to give. If everybody’s encouraged to want less, you’ll end up with less.

Have I played the part well? Then applaud as I exit.

That’s what a DJ is at the end of the day – someone who leads where the music goes. The only thing that’s changed is that in America, people have woken up in the last few years and realized it.

An art which isn’t based on feeling isn’t an art at all feeling is the principle, the beginning and the end; craft, objective, technique – all these are in the middle.

He found a formula for drawing comic rabbits: This formula for drawing comic rabbits paid. Till in the end he could not change the tragic habits This formula for drawing comic rabbits made.

Keen at the start, but careless at the end.