Past love is as good as a past dream, intangible, impossible to share.

He excused himself for a nap, and this day blended into his dreams like like years blended into a life, unseen but still felt, the line between memory and present always bleeding.

There are some things that only other people can do to you.

. . . overcast afternoons when it seemed possible the whole world had run out of things to say.

And how sad it is that the last face someone makes at you is always the face you remember the most.

I thought that if I could ever do a background check on myself, I knew exactly what I'd do with it. I wouldn't even read it, just take it somewhere sacred and set it on fire.