I never know what you really want, if I can give it to you, or if I’m already too late.
But the thing about a cry for help is that someone else needs to be around to hear it.
A photograph it a souvenir of a memory. It is not a moment. It is the looking at the photograph that becomes the moment. Your own moment.
Most people, I've noticed, are instinctively harsh to strangers. They expect every approach to be an attack, every question to be an interruption.
I am always amazed by people who know something is wrong but still insist on ignoring it, as if that will somehow make it go away. They spare themselves the confrontation, but end up boiling in resentment anyway.
The way you argued with me, you would have thought that we were debating the existence of God or whether or not we should move in together. These kinds of fights can never be won – even if you’re the victor, you’ve hurt the other person, and there has to be some loss associated with that.
And once again I think about how people use the devil as an alias for the things they fear. The cause and effect is backward. The devil doesn't make anyone do anything. People just do things and blame the devil after.
It's only in the finer points that it gets complicated and contentious, the inability to realize that no matter what our religion or gender or race or geographic background, we all have about 98 percent in common with each other.... For whatever reason, we like to focus on the 2 percent that's different, and most of the conflict in the world comes from that.
People are always separable.
But death is not freedom. For a moment, it can look like freedom. But then it's death. Anything. Something. Nothing.
I never have people tell me their stories. I usually have to figure them out myself. Because I know that if people tell me stories, they will expect them to be remembered. And I cannot guarantee that. There is no way to know if the stories stay after I'm gone. And how devastating would it be to confide in someone and have the confidence disappear? I don't want to be responsible for that.
This is my life, I think. I am an accumulation of objects.
Yes, time can be buoyed by wordlessness, but it needs to be anchored in words.
This is not something insignificant. This is real. This is happening, and this is ours.
Making love without noise is like playing a muted piano-fine for practice, but you cheat yourself out of hearing the glorious results.
It's the secret smile you get from knowing that, somewhere, there is someone who is yours. Not in the sense that you own her or control her. She is yours because you can say anything to her, whenever you need to. And she can do the same, whenever she needs to.
How amazing it is that friendships can become so full that you can't imagine what your life was like before them.
I am like the fish in the aquarium, thinking in a different language, adapting to a life that’s not my natural habitat. I am the people in the other cars, each with his or her own story, but passing too quickly to be noticed or understood.
The clock always ticks. There are times you don't hear it, and there are times that you do.
You like him because he's a lost boy. Believe me, I've seen it happen before. But do you know what happens to girls who love lost boys? They become lost themselves. Without fail.
There has to be a moment at the beginning when you wonder whether you’re in love with the person or in love with the feeling of love itself.
You think fairy tales are only for girls? Here's a hint - ask yourself who wrote them. I assure you, it wasn't just the women. It's the great male fantasy - all it takes is one dance to know that she's the one. All it takes is the sound of her song from the tower, or a look at her sleeping face. And right away you know - this is the girl in your head, sleeping or dancing or singing in front of you. Yes, girls want their princes, but boys want their princesses just as much. And they don't want a very long courtships. They want to know immediately.
If you stare at the center of the universe, there is coldness there. A blankness. Ultimately, the universe doesn't care about us. Time doesn't care about us. That's why we have to care about each other.
When you live as I do, you cannot indulge in jealousy. If you do, it will rip you apart.
But you have to figure that if it’s too hard to hang on, then maybe you should let go.
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