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While I can't have you, I long for you. I am the kind of person who would miss a train or a plane to meet you for coffee. I'd take a taxi across town to see you for ten minutes. I'd wait outside all night if I thought you would open the door in the morning.

This is what you remember of the people you love when they are gone-the ways they knew you that no one else did-even you. In that way, their passing is a death of a piece of yourself.

Women feel more guilt than men, not because of some weird chromosomal issue but because they have a history of being blamed for other people's behavior. You get hit, you must have annoyed someone; you get r*ped, you must have excited someone: your kid is a junkie, you must have brought him up wrong.

I wonder if anyone really identifies as the adult they've morphed into. I remember being sixteen and feeling eleven. I remember thinking, how could I be a teenager? I remember finishing high school and thinking, am I grown now? Is this what it feels like? I feel the same as I did before.

You once told me that the human eye is god's loneliest creation. How so much of the world passes through the pupil and still it holds nothing. The eye, alone in its socket, doesn't even know there's another one, just like it, an inch away, just as hungry, as empty.

By all these lovely tokens, September days are here. With summer's best of weather and autumn's best of cheer.

There's a Japanese legend that says,

When he says "Ily’ but Abdulla Pashew said,

Now, should we treat women as independent agents, responsible for themselves? Of course. But being responsible has nothing to do with being raped. Women don’t get raped because they were drinking or took drugs. Women do not get raped because they weren’t careful enough. Women get raped because someone raped them.

I love borders. August is the border between summer and autumn; it is the most beautiful month I know. Twilight is the border between day and night, and the shore is the border between sea and land. The border is longing: when both have fallen in love but still haven't said anything. The border is to be on the way. It is the way that is the most important thing.

If a friend of mine gave a feast, and did not invite me to it, I should not mind a bit. But if a friend of mine had a sorrow and refused to allow me to share it, I should feel it most bitterly. If he shut the doors of the house of mourning against me, I would move back again and again and beg to be admitted so that I might share in what I was entitled to share. If he thought me unworthy, unfit to weep with him, I should feel it as the most poignant humiliation.

Hey listen, it's alright, feeling a little heartbroken now and then is a good thing. It's how you know you still care. It's how you know there are things for you in this world that still matter, that are still worth hurting for.

Mother says there are locked rooms inside all women; kitchen of lust, bedroom of grief, bathroom of apathy... Sometimes, the men-they come with keys, and sometimes, they come with hammers.

I love no one but you, I have discovered, but you are far away and I am here alone. Then this is my life and maybe, however unlikely, I'll find my way back there. Or maybe, one day, I'll settle for second best. And on that same day, hell will freeze over, the sun will burn out and the stars will fall from the sky.

Your memory is a monster; you forget—it doesn't. It simply files things away. It keeps things for you, or hides things from you-and summons them to your recall with will of its own. You think you have a memory; but it has you.

"Memory blurs, that's the point. If memory didn't blur you wouldn't have the fool's courage to do things again, again, again, that tear you apart."