Language In Fiction Is Made Up Of

There's Just This For Consolation: An Hour Here Or There When Our Lives Seem, Against All Odds And Expectations, To Burst Open And Give Us Everything We've Ever Imagined.

Please, God, Send Me Something To Adore.

There Is A Beauty In The World, Though It's Harsher Than We Expect It To Be.

I Don't Have Any Regrets, Really, Except That One. I Wanted To Write About You, About Us, Really. Do You Know What I Mean? I Wanted To Write About Everything, The Life We're Having And The Lives We Might Have Had. I Wanted To Write About All The Ways We Might Have Died.

If You've Really Loved A Book, Or A Movie For That Matter, Really Loved It, What You Want Is That Same Book Again, But As If You've Never Read It. And When You Get Something Unfamiliar, You Feel Betrayed.