The tale is often wiser than the teller.

Sometimes we have so much to say, we cannot say it. Sometimes it's best we do not say goodbyes.

We carry on. We have ourselves and we carry on- in spite of our losses and mistakes and women, I think, have more than most. We are good secret-keepers. We can tie weights to out guilt and passions, and hatred and deceitfulness, and let them sink down, so that you'd never know they existed at all. But we know. I can count all mine.

There are moments. You will know them.

Imagine it. Use all your strength and imagine it exactly. And it will happen that way.

Love is blind, they say--but isn't it more that love makes us see too much? Isn't it more that love floods our brain with sights and sounds, so that everything looks bigger, brighter, more lovely than ever before?

Perfection is a moving target

What if...? A question we ask to hurt ourselves.