A Love Letter That Breathes

I’m going to break your bones in alphabetical order.

It is a universal truth that power rests in the hands of only a minority of those who seek it.

There will be things that will make us pause. But stalling wouldn’t stop the Earth from rotating. It wouldn't stop the Sun from shining. It wouldn’t stop the Moon from pulling the tides. Twenty-two billion years feels too far off for the Big Freeze.

I am no stranger to the impotence of grief—the pain of coming to terms with your own helplessness in the face of death.

A man who can be moved by friendship feels enough to be broken.

He is warm and firm but gentle, a steady rock in a turbulent sea. He is forgiveness, redemption and mercy. He is light in a place where the sun does not shine.

True tragedy comes (from) broken hope, they come from a fatal human flaw, or simply from waiting for something to happen.

His sixteenth year was supposed to be a fond memory of his youth, not a bookmarked passage he returned to over and over and over again until the novel of his life would fall open to the page unbidden, its spine creased in that one place from so many pathetic revisitations.

This too was a kind of gift: he didn’t like pain but he liked knowing he was hurting, liked knowing he was suffering for what he was and what he’d done and what he one day would be.