Maybe I'm dreaming you. Maybe you're dreaming me; maybe we only exist in each other's dreams and every morning when we wake up we forget all about each other.
When somebody is that patient, you have to feel grateful, and then you want to hurt them. Does that make any sense?
Why is love intensified by absence? Long ago, men went to sea and women wait for them, standing on the edge of the water, standing in the horizon for the tiny ship.
I have a sort of Christmas-morning sense of the library as a big box full of beautiful books.
Our coffee is so good we drink it ourselves!
Now I wonder if it means that the future is a place, or like a place, that I could go to; that is go to in some way other than just getting older.
Is it sad to fancy David Tennant when you're dead?
Love you...Henry-Always...Oh God oh God-World enough...No!And time...Henry!
We laugh and laugh, and nothing can ever be sad, no one can be lost, or dead, or far away: right now we are here, and nothing can mar our perfection, or steal the joy of this perfect moment.
In the dim light of the computer screen he seemed otherworldly; Julia thought him beautiful, though she knew it was the beauty of damage.
I make books because I love them as objects; because I want to put the pictures and the words together, because I want to tell a story.
What we need,' Henry says, 'is a fresh start. A blank slate. Let's call her Tabula Rasa.
I now have an erection that is probably tall enough to ride some of the scarier rides at Great America without a parent.
Rivelerò un segreto: a volte sono contenta che Henry non ci sia. A volte mi piace stare sola. A volte, a tarda notte, passeggio per la casa e fremo di piacere all'idea di non dover parlare né toccare,...
The pain has left but I know that it has not gone far, that it is sulking somewhere in a corner or under the bed and it will jump out when I least expect it.
I reach up and pull my hair back from my face, show him the scar from the accident. Unconsciously, he mimics my gesture, touches the same scar on his own forehead.It's just like mine, says my self, am...
I sit quietly and think about my mom. It's funny how memory erodes, If all I had to work from were my childhood memories, my knowledge of my mother would be faded and soft, with a few sharp memories s...
She's going to break my heart and I'm going to let her.
The best love is the kind that weakens the soul, that makes us reach for more. That plants a fire in our hearts and brings peace to our minds.
I think about cutting my hair. How nice it would be to wash it, run a quick comb through it, and presto! all set, ready to rock and roll. I sigh. Henry loves my hair almost as though it were a creatur...
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