Lord, have mercy on my rough and rowdy ways.

Worn out nearly through, broken down and exhausted, waiting for the fall.

Traveling is like flirting with life. It’s like saying, ‘I would stay and love you, but I have to go.’

I was born chasing love. I walked through all its rivers. Called out for it in the night, trying to find its source. Mistook ponds for something they’re not. Fell into the hands of rapids more than once. The love I was chasing was right here all along: 
in the lake of my chest.

Strange as it may seem, I still hope for the best, even though the best, like an interesting piece of mail, so rarely arrives, and even when it does it can be lost so easily.

Self-love is so important; I don't want to be in my elderly years, flicking through old pictures of myself and at the last moment realising how beautiful I truly was.

Sometimes you regret the things you do, but they’re over and done. Regretting the things you didn’t do is tougher because they’re still out there, haunting you with the what ifs.

Love makes your soul crawl out from its hiding place.