They began to see each other with less frequency as she widened her horizons and he exploited his, trying to find solace in other hearts for his pain, and at last, with no sorrow, they forgot each other.
From so much self-revising, I’ve destroyed myself. From so much self-thinking, I’m now my thoughts and not I.
These were not heroes, these were men who wanted to go home.
There’s a kind of love that has the power to save you, to get you through life. It’s like breathing. You have to do it or you’ll die. And when it’s over, your soul starts to bleed. There’s no pain in the world like it, I swear.
Books are mirrors: you only see in them what you already have inside you.
Love is an irresistible desire to be irresistibly desired.
Three o’clock is always too late or too early for anything you want to do.
I am obsessed at nights with the idea of my own worthlessness, and if it were only to turn a light on to save my life I think I would not do it. These are the last footprints of a headache I suppose. Do you ever feel that? — like an old weed in a stream. What do you feel, lying in bed?
You can love somebody without it being like that. You keep them a stranger, a stranger who’s a friend.
I’ve always loved you, and when you love someone, you love the whole person, just as he or she is, and not as you would like them to be.
secretive dreams 