I Think That When You Live In

If You Were Drifting With A Thousand Other People, Could You Really Still Say You Were Lost?

Sometimes I Think My Whole Life Has Been About Holding On To You.

If It's Us", She Whispered, "how Come You Get To Decide?" When He Didn't Answer - Couldn't Answer - She Turned And Stared Out The Front Window. As It Turned Out, They Were Still In The Parking Lot. They Hadn't Gotten Anywhere At All.

I Realized It Was Like Looking Into The Sun—you Shouldn't Do It, Because You'd Turn Your Face Away And Be Blind To Everything Else.

Was There A Language Of Loss? Did Everyone Who Suffered Speak A Different Dialect?