Everytime He Brushes Me With His Fingers,

Funny How Certain Things Stay With You.

They Couldn’t Have Known That Even This Was A Lie—that We Never Really Choose, Not Entirely. We Are Always Being Pushed And Squeezed Down One Road Or Another. We Have No Choice But To Step Forward, And Then Step Forward Again, And Then Step Forward Again; Suddenly We Find Ourselves On A Road We Haven’t Chosen At All. But Maybe Happiness Isn’t In The Choosing. Maybe It’s In The Fiction, In The Pretending: That Wherever We Have Ended Up Is Where We Intended To Be All Along.

It Is War Now, And Armies Need Symbols.

Life Isn't Life If You Just Float Through It.

That's When You Really Lose People, You Know.when The Pain Passes.